As the Sky
by GataFairy
Summary: Effie pieces her life back together after the rebellion and helps others along the way.
1. When the Shadows Come Back

**Acknowledgements:** R, my goddess of a beta, for her many years of wonderful friendship, and for her patience with me and my constant blathering about this fic as I wrote it. Also S, who dealt with my babbling as well, and who has been a far better friend than I deserve. Shulik on Tumblr, for her generosity and encouragement, which she so kindly offered this humble stranger when I doubted myself in the face of her amazing work. My muse - you have touched me for now and for always, and I know not what else to give you but my endless gratitude.

* * *

Effie nearly chokes one morning, her throat so dry from screaming that the inhalation for the next cry is one breath too many. The ensuing coughing fit doesn't help matters, but such involuntary reactions are inevitable, like the scenes that play out in her head nearly every night.

Shaking, she makes her way to her bathroom, turns the tap on, and drinks. The water cools her skin as it drips down her chin and neck, anchoring her further in her apartment, dimly lit with early morning light, safe from those months of darkness and despair.

_It's safe here,_ she tells herself, splashing more water on her face for good measure. _I'm safe here. It's been months. This is a new Capitol, a new Panem. I'm safe now. Safe._

As soon as she'd been able after her surgeries, she had been permitted to work in a capacity much like before, only this time she was to put her skills for managing people and activities to good use. She threw herself into the tasks given her with all the zeal she had for her duties as escort, counting down the days until she could see Katniss again and pretend, even if just for seconds at a time, that it was their first time as a team, before Katniss had fought for her life, before Effie had finally understood the true horror of Coriolanus Snow's regime.

Effie doesn't know why Katniss shot Alma Coin, but even when the shock of it made it hard to put together coherent sentences, everything she said when called to the stand was in Katniss' favor. After all, it's because of Katniss that she's here, that anyone at all is here, that their world has changed at last.

The nation is still transitioning, but there are fewer national broadcasts and fewer people who need directing to and fro. Those first few weeks had demanded every ounce of her energy, every moment of her attention. A lesser person would have lacked the time to properly undress at the end of the day and dress to perfection in the morning, but not her.

But now there is not enough work to keep her busy, to exhaust her within inches of collapsing. She has the time to think and to really see herself in the mirror in the morning and at night.

Her eyes are red from tears she hadn't realized she'd shed in her sleep; her cheeks are a perfect, even red save for the lazy pink of a scar that's still healing; her hair is the worst of all.

Whirling, she leans back against the sink and stares at her trembling hands.

"It's safe here," she whispers. "I'm safe here. It's been months. It's over."

But it isn't over, and she's not sure it ever will be.

* * *

Breakfast is a lazy affair on off days like today. Effie makes coffee, sweetens it while the eggs boil. All the while, she is planning, organizing, thinking, because today is going to be a big, big, big day.

Before Peeta had been allowed to return to District Twelve, Effie had carved time for regular visits with him into her schedule. They never said much when they sat together, because while pleasantries and thoughts for the future were nice, neither of them could bear being the one to bring up what they should discuss.

At the train station on the day that he left, Effie began to feel again, and that feeling had been sadness.

"If there's anything at all I can do," she had said and trailed off, because what could she possibly do for him now?

But, gracious as always, he nodded. "You, too."

They went from gently shaking one another's hands to holding them tight, and then he was off, taking the flicker of feeling with him.

She has been as hollow as the tunnel his train went through ever since, until today. Since waking, she has thought of all the things she's tried to get past this: doctors, pills, music - even liquor, which had worked until she'd woken up the next morning with the world's worst headache.

The only thing she hasn't done is talked with someone she trusts. Her surviving friends and family are out of the question, as many of them are too busy complaining about how difficult life has become and how good it used to be to even begin to understand, and the rest won't be able to do more than pat her on the shoulder and tell her everything will be all right. Her doctor, while helpful, can only do so much. She'll never try morphling because, as horrible as the memories and the nightmares are, she doesn't want to run away from them at the expense of her life, or what it could be. She understands the desire, even the need for the escape that drugs and liquor bring, but it's not for her. She is a talker and a doer, not a thinker.

So she finds herself biting hard on her bottom lip as the phone rings once, twice, a third time. She peeks out her window at the city below, the neat lines of the city streets reminding her of altogether different things that Peeta's voice cuts through.

She smiles, genuinely, for the first time in far too long. "I think," she says after _hello_ and _how are things_, "that there is something we can do for one another, if you'd be so kind as to hear what I've been thinking."

"Of course I'll hear it," he says, sincere in the utmost.

He said once that Katniss didn't know the effect she had on people. Effie thinks Peeta is much like Katniss in that regard, because he cannot possibly know how far his kindness reaches, how even the offer to listen has begun to chase away the specters haunting her night and day.

* * *

With Plutarch Heavensbee's blessing, she leaves for District Twelve the next day. The train ride feels longer now that she isn't planning the minutiae of the tributes' schedules in the days leading up to the Hunger Games. Effie drinks half a bottle of wine on the way there, but she dreams that night anyway, dreams of the children she never brought back home. They fill her little room, staring at her with wide eyes, skin and clothes covered with coal dust, faces drawn with hunger and fear.

She wakes up apologizing, sets the tray with the rest of the wine out in the hall, still apologizing, and drinks nothing but water to replenish what she's lost and is still losing in her tears, apologizing with every breath until she falls asleep again. The empty darkness that greets her this time is sweet but short, because they will arrive soon and she must get ready.

The familiarity of morning preparations calms her, and by the time they reach the platform at Twelve, she is collected if not calm. No one is waiting for her, but she doesn't need a guide. This district is familiar territory despite once having been the last place she wanted to be.

The rebuilding effort has done much in the short time since starting up and given the amount of damage done. She doesn't see much - she rushes to Victors Village with her head down, too aware of who she is to these people, what she's done to them to walk at a normal pace when she has done nothing to blend in.

She'll start doing her work once she's settled. There may not be much for her to do back in the Capitol, but she still had to have a reason to be away. Luckily, Heavensbee agreed that a piece on District Twelve's progress post-bombing and post-war will be inspiring to the new nation. One week is plenty of time to draw up a proper report on current developments and projections and to give suggestions as to proper presentation of the program.

They'll probably hate the mere suggestion of it, though mostly, she thinks, it will be because it's her and she's dressed as if very little at all has changed. She has chosen a sky blue wig, a grey dress that ends above her knees, white gloves that reach past her elbows and nearly touch her short sleeves, and high-heeled blue boots to match. She is a glaring reminder of everything they hate and so many people fought and died to destroy. Hopefully they will also remember that she was pardoned at Katniss' request. It's the only thing Effie has got going for her.

"I appreciate your hospitality so much, Peeta," she says once Peeta has let her inside. His house looks more or less the same as she remembers it. If anything, there is more art on the walls and on the shelves, beautiful accents that make every room very his.

"It's nothing," he tells her. "I've been staying with Katniss, so you'll have the house to yourself for the most part."

She smiles, looking out one of the windows that faces Katniss' house. "How is she doing?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him follow her gaze. "Not bad. Better than the last time you saw her, definitely."

"I'm so glad to hear that." She remembers very clearly that day months ago. The haunted look in Katniss' eyes had given Effie the push she'd needed to pull herself together and act stronger than she felt. Katniss had needed her support. If reprising her role as escort was the only thing she could do to help the icon of the rebellion, she had decided she would do it well. "Is she home right now? I'd love to see her."

"No, she went out to the woods early this morning." He breaks free of the moment first, looking away from the window. "Can I get you anything?"

"Some water would be lovely, thank you." She follows him into the kitchen, leaving her bags by the stairs for later. It's enough time for him to have her glass of water ready. As she takes it, she asks, "How have you been?"

He shrugs. "Better. Sometimes worse," he adds almost sheepishly, "but mostly better."

"You're in my dreams sometimes, you know," she says suddenly, her gaze darting down to her glass. The water is sweeter out here, closer to the natural elements that are still somewhat foreign to her. If she could lose herself in the cool, clean taste, she would. "Your voice, more than anything."

She glances at him in time to see him lift a hand to the back of his neck and nod. "Same with you, actually. But it isn't so bad now."

Because of Katniss, surely. Peeta is lucky. No, both he and Katniss are lucky that they have each other.

"I'll help you take your things upstairs," he says, and Effie nods.

The guest room is just the right size for her, and the view from her window is beautiful: a few houses, a sliver of a grassy field, and trees as far as the eye can see. How did no one from the Capitol ever take the time to really see how breathtaking the districts are? How did _she_ never see it, every year she came here?

"I think it's an interesting idea, by the way," Peeta, now standing at the door, tells her. He waits until she's turned to face him before continuing. "The television special."

"Thank you," she says, smiling. "It didn't take much to convince Plutarch to let me come here for some preliminary reports. He's such a softy for uplifting stories." She rolls her eyes, and Peeta chuckles quietly. Plutarch Heavensbee is a showman at heart, and she has preyed on that just so she can have the chance to be here for her own reasons. "I don't think it'll be so easy to talk the people here into it, but it can't hurt to try." If she succeeds, she gets to stay here longer. It's selfish, but at least this time, her efforts will help rather than harm.

The sounds of cursing, honking, and shattering glass drift in through the open window. Effie frowns, and Peeta laughs, shaking his head. "Looks like one of the geese tried to attack the hand that feeds it."

"Did he really start raising geese?" Peeta nods, and Effie rolls her eyes, chuckling. "I honestly thought you were joking when you told me."

They share another laugh, then Peeta is off to see if Katniss has come home, and Effie is left to get settled in. She makes quick work of unpacking her clothes and setting up her work space in the desk by the bed. Tomorrow, she'll get started on her project. She has set aside all of today for adjusting and more detailed planning.

When the sunlight turns golden orange, she shuts the window against a chill that has nothing to do with the air.


	2. Into a Minefield

When Effie wakes the next morning, it takes her a few moments to remember where she is. Everything about this room, even the quality of the light filtering in through the window, reminds her of stories she used to hear as a child about where people went when they died and what Panem used to look like before the natural disasters struck.

In the dark and desperate nights in prison, she had wondered if there really was a paradise, and if she would go there if the Peacekeepers would do her the courtesy of killing her soon. Those horrible moments where she hung between conscious and not had driven her to numb the pain with thoughts of what it would be like when she died. Surely her grandfather would be there, his crinkly face restored so the zebra stripes on his skin would look as they had in his youth. Surely he would take her on walks in perfect parks and ask her if she remembered the names of all the birds he'd taught her.

She pauses by the window on her way to get her bathrobe. If there is something waiting for her after this life, she hopes it looks like District Twelve.

* * *

"Morning."

"Katniss!" Effie exclaims, putting a hand to her heart. "Goodness. You frightened me." Shaking her head, she lets out a shaky breath, then pulls herself together and smiles. "Good morning."

"Sorry," Katniss says, but she still gives a small grin. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No, I only just finished getting ready." As if to make sure, Effie pats down the back of her wig. She has no doubts about how her face looks. Learning to cover the scars had taken her quite a few tries, and always, she triple checks before leaving the safety of the bathroom.

"Good, because Peeta's going crazy in the kitchen, and we're going to need help eating all of that food."

Effie can't help thinking that as far as proper invitations go, it's lacking. But it is wholly Katniss, empty of pretention and snobbery.

"I would love to help."

Katniss' house is identical in layout to Peeta's, but it is very obviously hers. Decorations are sparse, but the rooms all look inhabited: a large, heavy blanket lies crumpled on the couch in the living room, and a large scrapbook sits amid paints and pens on the dining room table. It smells different, too, like the trees in the woods. She has been here before, but it feels all new. Effie loves it the moment she steps inside.

They eat at the kitchen counter, where Peeta places the rolls and biscuits that are cooled and ready. Effie had grown up attending parties catered by the Capitol's best, but none of those extravagant buffets compare to this.

"Peeta told me you're here about a television show?" Katniss asks, ripping a cheese-covered roll in half and watching the steam rise from it.

"That's correct," Effie answers, buttering a plain biscuit. "I'm here to see if there's interest, first and foremost, and also to document what I can of how things are progressing." She takes a bite and chews thoughtfully for a moment. "But also, I wanted the chance to see you both for more than just a day or two."

"I was wondering how you've been," Katniss says around a mouthful of roll. "And I think it's great that you're not just walking in here with a film crew."

The unadorned honesty lets loose a flicker of memory, one in which Effie is watching the screens in the town square while awaiting her cue to start the reaping. Clearing her throat, she reminds herself those days are over now. "That would be unspeakably rude. The people rebuilding should be given a choice in the matter. Everyone should."

"Definitely," Peeta says.

Katniss nods. "We're going into town today with some lunch for the workers."

"Oh?"

"It isn't much," Peeta tells Effie, "but it's a change, and it's less work for them and their families. Even if it's just once a week, it's something."

Effie smiles. "I'm sure it is."

"You could come with us," Katniss says. "It'll be a good way to meet everyone."

That, and being introduced by the Mockingjay herself, will help Effie's case. Katniss and Peeta's implicit endorsement of Effie's task is not something the people here will overlook. "I think that's a wonderful idea," she tells them. "Thank you both so much."

They eat until they are full. Peeta continues switching trays in and out of the oven, clearing cooled breads off some and filling them with raw dough at once. The ease with which he moves mesmerizes Effie for a moment.

"Have you eaten at all, Peeta?" she asks him, the thought coming to her swiftly and breaking the spell.

"He eats before he starts baking," Katniss answers as she and Effie watch him balance a tray in one hand.

"It's to keep me focused while I work," he says. He slides the tray into the oven and shuts the door, giving Katniss a pointed yet playful look. "You wouldn't go hunting on an empty stomach, would you?"

It's very brief, but Effie catches it, the glance they share, the little smile that they can't shake off for those few seconds after they tune back in to the rest of the world. The odds were never on their side, not through two trips to the arena and one bloody rebellion, yet here they are, alive, together.

Effie smiles. Even without the fate of all of Panem in their hands, they embody the hope the nation needs to press onwards.

"I've got to go look through my things so I'll be ready for when we go into town later," she tells them, standing. "I'll see you in a bit!"

* * *

It takes her under half an hour to get her notebook and pencils ready and jot down what little information she has. The questions she'd like to get started with take up a few more minutes. Peeta and Katniss haven't called by the time she's done. With at least another hour to kill, she wanders downstairs. The late morning light brings the whole house to life and lends it a warmth that makes it feel like home.

Except this isn't home. She is only a visitor, and she is only here as long as she has a job to do.

Grasping her elbows, she steps outside to see the sky. A few clouds drift lazily along, but bright blue dominates overhead. It's the same sky wherever she goes, a constant comfort in the face of an ever-changing world.

What did that sky look like on the day of the bombing? She pictures black smoke and burning trees, smells the singed leaves and the acrid scent of incinerated wood. Or maybe the smell is still in the air somehow, and the smoke still hangs on the houses in Victors Village, untouched since the last Victory Tour.

_These houses, and the people's bright spirits, are the only things that remain the same despite the brutality of the old Capitol's final acts against them_. The words come to her unbidden; she repeats them to herself under her breath as she rushes off to search for a notebook. Once she's written them down, she heads back outside with a destination in mind.

If she didn't remember which house is his from before, she would have found it by way of the faint sounds of honking and flapping feathers. She spots the gaggle of them spread out behind the house, having their fill of bright green grass, while their owner sits in a chair on the porch, slouching and unkempt, a large, clear bottle in his hand.

"So it _is_ true," she says once she's near enough to not have to shout. He frowns up at her as she comes to a stop at the bottom of the porch steps. "You and the geese. I never would've pictured it."

He lifts a shoulder in half a shrug. "Never would've pictured Screeching Beauty herself visiting poor, decimated District Twelve of her own free will."

Her jaw drops, and even her gasp catches in her throat. She isn't sure which is worse: the allusion to how she used to be or the epithet and all it implies. "Pardon?"

Haymitch gestures with his chin to Peeta's house. "Heard you clear as day last night."

Not for the first time, she is glad her make-up covers the blush that rushes to her cheeks. Goodness, had it taken her so long to wake up? She knows her neighbors in the Capitol must have heard her, but here, so far from the other houses- unless Haymitch had been awake at that hour-

"I'm here on a job," she says instead. "One I _asked_ for."

"If it's about getting interviews, save yourself the trouble and leave on the next train. Unless- wait. Do you come bearing gifts?"

"No, Haymitch, I did not bring any alcohol with me. I'm not much for drinking, and I doubt Peeta and Katniss are, either."

He sighs loudly and shifts in his seat so he is leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. Meeting her gaze with a frown, he asks, "This isn't some sick ploy to sober me up, is it? I told Heavensbee I'm not doing a single show for him."

"It isn't about you. It's about the district, and I'm going to ask people's opinions before we commit to anything."

"Was that your idea, or did Heavensbee script it for you?"

"I only came by here just now to say hello, not to be insulted!" Somewhere between seeing him and now, she had balled her hands up into tight fists. She feels her nails digging into her palms. Breathing slowly, she counts until at least some of the tension passes. Really, what helps the most is that he allows her the time to do this, where before, this would have won him any given argument.

But she can't find anything more to say, and he doesn't offer anything to fill the silence either.

Luckily, Katniss comes to her rescue. She says a quick hello to Haymitch and leads Effie back to her kitchen, where Peeta has readied the breads for transport. Effie takes a tray and follows Peeta outside again, walking slowly on the unfamiliar terrain. Her heeled boots do not agree with the stray stones and the sometimes uneven ground, but it's too late to change now. None of the shoes she could have brought with her would be any better, anyway.

Her uncertainty on her feet doesn't come close to the misgivings in her mind, because it's entirely possible that Haymitch is right. The best decision might be to pack up and go home, saving herself the trouble. She will be no closer to her goal, professional or personal, than she is now.

She glances at Peeta, who has slowed in his walk so he isn't too far ahead of her. Behind her is Katniss, footsteps silent. If they had persevered against the odds and won, surely Effie can manage the conversation that is ahead of her. To do otherwise would be to dishonor the sacrifices made for the rebellion.

Effie has too much guilt on her shoulders to add another ounce. She will do what she has come here to do, even if, for the first time in her life, it threatens to harm her more than anyone here.


	3. Real

Baking is solely Peeta's area of expertise, but Katniss has mastered the art of sprinkling toppings on the different breads. She learned the right mixture of cheeses for her favorite first, eager for something they could do together besides sit and talk or not talk. Those first few weeks after his return had been filled with silence, but now she helps a tiny bit with the baking, and he can walk more stealthily.

"Do you think they'll like Effie's idea?" she asks, sending a rain of sesame seeds down onto a row of buns.

Peeta sighs, shaking his head. "I think a lot of them are going to be wary. Some might not see a problem with it, but-" He doesn't finish the thought, gently sliding a set of completed buns off a tray.

Katniss grabs another handful of seeds from a bag. Her silence tells him everything, that she thinks some of them will hate it, try to scare Effie out of their home because they are like Gale and they can't look beyond what was. They only remember the lies they were fed about the glory of their former country, the horrors they were forced to watch and take joy in every year under the old regime.

She doesn't blame them. She only wishes things were different.

"Last night, I dreamt about baking," she tells him after a while.

He grins. "You're lying."

She shakes her head, gives half a smile. "Does that make me a baker?"

"It makes you a baker's girl." Chuckling, he spreads corn meal on a tray and starts filling it with bread. "I'm glad you're coming today."

She keeps her gaze on the tray she's working on, watches the last of the seeds drop onto the raw dough. "I figure she'll appreciate the support."

"I think you'll appreciate her supporting you, too." Katniss looks up at him, frowning. "People ask about you every week," he continues. "I know you'd rather be out in the woods, but…" He shrugs. "It helps me as much as it helps them when I take them bread once a week."

"I know." It's just difficult to be around so many people, some of them familiar, and to know that they see in her someone far greater than she is. Memories of Peeta's selfless kindness have only recently stopped weighing her heart down with guilt. Facing a town full of people who see her as a hero will only remind her of all the people who died, of Prim getting caught in the crossfire. Prim, for whom Katniss put her life on the line in the first place.

Prim is the real hero, as far as Katniss is concerned, because if not for Prim, they would all be watching the Hunger Games in a few days, and Effie's reason for being here would be to take another pair of children away. Prim is why they're all here. Prim is why the talk of film crews coming in is being presented to them as an option, to show them in a good light, not to crush them beneath garish heels.

"Katniss."

When she looks up at him again, he holds out his hand for the tray she has been staring at for some time. Nodding, she hands it to him, and he slips it and the final tray into the oven.

Wiping his hands on his apron, he says, "Deep down, Effie's a good person." He pauses, meeting her gaze. "Real or not real?"

She pauses a moment, taking the space of a breath to wonder about the woman who spent years sending children to their deaths with a smile, who went to prison because Katniss found the chink in the armor that night, who has not complained for a moment about what may have transpired in the weeks and months between the Panem that was and the Panem that is becoming.

She answers, "Real."

* * *

Katniss goes to get Effie, and with Peeta leading the way, the three head to town. Katniss brings up the rear, peering over the basket in her arms at their unintentional procession. It's hardly straight despite the certainty in Peeta's stride, the easy comfort of the path he walks ahead of them. He is far from silent, but even less so is Effie, who almost stumbles from time to time. The limited view Katniss has of her face is enough to show the tension in it. No amount of make-up can create permanent confidence and cheer.

But she's trying, which is more than Katniss can say about herself. Yes, she showers every day, goes hunting, takes care of Buttercup - she has returned from the dark despair of deepest grief. But she is like Haymitch in that she hides away, all but refusing to face the world. Sometimes, she has to leave the house through the back door because she can't stand to see the evening primrose bushes out front. Sometimes, she catches glimpses of them from inside, and Buttercup senses her distress, and she and that hideous cat sit together in silence for hours.

She would rather be back in the house right now, but she will not go back on her word. She hasn't before, and she won't make a habit of it now. Maybe Peeta is right and this will do her good, to see how the town is doing, to talk to other people, even if only for a little while. Besides, it may be hard for her, but it must be a thousand times worse for Effie in her blue wig and boots, pretty dress and gloves, an unwelcome memory of what used to be.

Peeta told her the full extent of Effie's idea the very evening she called to tell him.

"I couldn't say no," he had said, eyes half-open as he watched and heard the things that haunt him. Shaking his head, he had repeated more softly, "I couldn't say no. Before I came home to you, she was the only familiar person I'd see. And-"

"It's okay." She had not let him finish, the unspoken promise not to speak of the unspeakable clear and present in her mind.

She thinks she can see it now, the tie that binds them together. It's in the way Peeta knows not to go too fast and the way Effie tries not to lag too far behind. It isn't colored by need; it isn't the desperation of people afraid to be apart. It's a mutual trust that can only be forged in halls of horror, not unlike the arena, though never as deep and as dark.

That isn't what the rest of the district will see, though, Katniss realizes, and Peeta knows it, too. Katniss doesn't want to see what will happen, but she knows she needs to be here, an ally even if only in presence.

They reach town, and right away the urge to turn around starts to pull at her feet. The rubble has been cleared up, for the most part, but the ghosts of the past rise up, flickering in her peripheral vision as she looks ahead. Soon she hears the builders working, and sure enough, they see the bearers of today's bounty.

Peeta leads them to the covered space they've set aside for meals, a series of long tables with benches on either side. He sets his things down on the innermost table and directs Effie and Katniss to do the same. Katniss barely hears him over the greetings the builders call to her. Beyond a quick glance, they ignore Effie.

Katniss smiles for them, says hello and nods as they gather beneath the shade of the tarp overhead. It's almost stifling, the heat and all these people. She forces down the thoughts of fire and burning flesh. "I've been okay," she tells them. "Your work is really coming along."

"Would you mind telling us about it, Harlan?" Peeta asks as he pulls a folded sheet off the last basket.

"Well, you've seen it," answers Harlan. He is from the old Seam, a man who lived with his family several houses down from Katniss' childhood home. "We finished a few houses and a store. We fell behind when it rained a few days last week, but we're catching up."

"But there's no real schedule, is there?"

They go silent, all heads turning to Effie. Katniss remembers her first interview with Caesar Flickerman, the way her heart pounded in her ears and rendered her speechless despite how easy it had been to volunteer at the reaping for all of Panem to see.

Nothing can prepare a person for being thrust into an unfamiliar spotlight. The bright blue of Effie's eyes betrays her; there is none of the confidence from before.

"That is- you work as you can, at your own pace, without interference," Effie continues. She pauses, clears her throat. "No one can tell you what to do when but you."

The air is heavy with the heat of the summer sun and the old hatred in the builders' bones. For a moment, Katniss swears she sees Gale among them, his hard, unforgiving gaze trained on Effie. Katniss holds her breath.

"That's right," says Harlan. "You have no say in anything anymore."

"Actually, that's why I'm here," Effie tells him.

Harlan frowns at Peeta, who nods. Then Harlan looks at Katniss, who wants to shrug. She glances at Effie, then back at Harlan, and nods.

Harlan looks at Effie. "Go on."

"There is interest in filming your progress over some time," Effie explains. "Things have settled down since the rebellion, but we think it would help nationwide recovery if everyone could see how District Twelve, which fared the worst in the rebellion, is doing now."

Murmurs arise in the group. Katniss tenses, listening hard. Harlan looks over his shoulder and whispers something to the men nearest him, who nod. To her credit, Effie holds her ground.

Finally Harlan says, "Go home. We're not your entertainment anymore."

"That isn't what-"

"_Go home,_" he repeats, his voice so loud it leaves a ringing in Katniss' ears for a second.

Effie draws a quick breath as if to protest, but she holds it instead. Katniss' gaze travels to Effie's hands, at the fingers moving almost imperceptibly at her sides. What looks like twitching is regular and deliberate, a steady count of eight, nine, ten.

"If you would please listen to the whole story," Effie begins with new strength, but that is as far as she gets.

From somewhere in the middle of the gathered laborers, a woman shouts, "Get out of here, Capitol scum!"

Then a man cries, "We don't want your pretend sympathy!"

Then another one says, "Murderer!"

And others follow in disorder, grumbling, their eyes threatening death or worse. In Katniss' mind, it's the night of the interviews before the third Quarter Quell, and the Capitol audience is in uproar over the wedding that will never be.

No, it isn't, and this is not the same, but when the memory goes away, some of the builders are hurling obscenities, and Effie is standing in place only because she has nowhere to run.

Someone's voice rings out over the commotion, and they quiet at once. It takes them all staring at her for Katniss to realize she is the one who called for them to stop.

She hears, in her head, Haymitch's laughter at her flubbed Mockingjay lines, sees bombs raining down on the hospital in Eight, feels the heat against her skin from the flames below as she stands on a roof and fires exploding arrows at the Capitol ships.

She hears Cinna's voice telling her he is still betting on her.

"She isn't here to hurt us," she tells them, voice as firm as the ground beneath her feet. "She didn't come in here with a camera crew and just start filming, did she? That Capitol is gone. What more proof do you need than to have a former escort for the Hunger Games come here and ask for your permission to film your work?

"I know it sounds crazy. I thought it was, too, the first time I heard about it. But then I remembered being in Thirteen. Being the Mockingjay. After two Games, after my engagement and wedding being made a TV show, the rebel leaders wanted to use me to further the cause. They thought it would give people hope to see me alive, and guess what? It did. I hated it, and Peeta got hurt so badly because of it, but if I hadn't done it, we might not be here today.

"You never saw the propos. You didn't have to. But just understand that if anyone knows why you're upset, why you feel like this is about using you, it's me, and I'm still willing to listen to her. Nobody's life is in danger here. But what if you can help? What if this will give someone hope?"

In the silence that follows, Katniss feels more than sees the effect her betrayal has had on the builders. They stand tense, frowning, and they stare at her like she has asked them to watch their children burn to end the rebellion.

She ignores those stares, instead meeting Peeta's gaze. In his eyes, she sees that she has not descended into madness. Not now, and not before when defending her prep team to Gale. She thinks of them imprisoned in District Thirteen, shackled and cramped; she imagines, for only a moment, how much worse the Capitol prisons must have been.

Here and now, the workers murmur to one another. Katniss detects the sharp hiss of anger in some voices. It seems like hours later when Harlan takes the lead for them again.

"We'll hear you. That doesn't guarantee our agreement," he is quick to add, "but we won't shut you out."

Effie nods, visibly relieved. "Of course. That's all I ask. Thank you."

"Sit with us," he says as he heads for a basket of bread. "Now is the best time."

"Yes, of course. You're very busy."

Peeta goes with Effie to sit with Harlan. Katniss goes to another table. She has shown she is willing to take Effie's side, but she must demonstrate to the builders that she is with them, too. Nothing will break the bonds they share from having lived in poverty under the old regime, but they need to understand that their world is not so black and white, and that Katniss herself lives in the grey space, bridging the gap.

The Capitol betrayed her when Snow announced the terms of the third Quarter Quell, and even before then, when he promised to keep them safe and instead sought to control them; but District Twelve betrayed her, too, even if that betrayal took only Gale's form. It will never again be easy to take sides.

On the walk back to Victors Village, they go in a cluster with Katniss in the middle. The empty baskets are light, and their pace is quicker.

"Harlan said he'll discuss it with everyone tonight after the work day ends," Effie tells them. "They'll come to a decision by lunch tomorrow."

"One of us can go into town with you to find out, if you want," Peeta offers.

Effie shakes her head. "I appreciate that very much, Peeta, but you've both done enough for me and this project. I owe it to them to speak with them on my own."

Katniss nods, proud, in a way. The gesture will speak well of Effie, and she has figured it out without any help.

They take the baskets into Katniss' house. Peeta gets them all water, and Effie sighs and takes off her gloves.

"I never noticed how hot it is here in the summer," she says, shaking her head. "And I can barely walk in these shoes. The only other pair I brought are for indoors, though."

"You can buy a new pair in town," Katniss tells her. "A man named Marsh makes shoes for the workers and for export."

Effie smiles. "Wonderful. I'll see I get to him tomorrow after I speak with Harlan."

She stays until they've all had their glasses of water, then she is off to Peeta's house. "Plutarch will want a detailed report at the end of the week," she says before she goes, "so I'd best get my notes written down before I forget anything important. Even if we don't film anything, a written update will still be nice to have."

Katniss sees her off, shutting the door behind her as Peeta puts away the baskets for another week.

"Thank you for coming today," he says to her as he comes to stand by her side. Katniss instantly feels more relaxed. "You didn't have to, and you really didn't have to say all you did."

"I know," she tells him, resting her head against his chest. "But she stood up to Haymitch for me when I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers. I owed her one."

Peeta chuckles, holding her close.

Katniss shuts her eyes and smiles.


	4. Time Bomb

The next morning, Katniss goes to meet Effie in Peeta's kitchen, a pair of boots in hand. After the idea had occurred to her, she had gone looking for them and found them in a corner of her wardrobe, covered in dust after months of disuse. While Peeta had gone out to prune the evening primrose bushes, Katniss had carefully cleaned the boots as best she could. She had considered putting a bow or some other decoration on them, but she owned nothing of the sort. Besides, she had told herself as she made the short walk to Peeta's house, it would be surprise enough to show up unannounced again.

This time she knocks to announce her presence, sparing Effie a scare she likely doesn't need.

"You and I are about the same size, I think," she says after they exchange greetings, and lifts the shoes for Effie to see. "Try these."

"Goodness, but they look brand new," Effie protests.

Katniss nods. "I only used them maybe twice. I already have a pair I like." She lifts a foot, indicating her hunting boots. They look worn, but they are strong and sturdy, comforting and familiar, molded to the shape of her feet. "Just try them on. They might fit."

They move to sit at the dining table, and Effie removes a blue boot and slides on a black one. For a while, she is pensive, shaking her foot, standing, taking a few steps. Sighing, she turns to Katniss and says, "I'm afraid I won't be able to help the local economy."

Katniss rolls her eyes, smiling. "Glad I could save you the trouble."

Effie changes her other boot and sets the blue ones by the stairs. Once at the table again, she stares at them, smiles, thanks Katniss properly. Katniss remembers, quite suddenly, the time she gave Gale a pair of gloves of Cinna's design, how Gale had rejected them in the end. The memory is gone just as swiftly, and she only just manages to hear Effie remark that the boots seem very sturdy.

"It makes sense, of course," she continues. "They were made with such hard work in mind."

"They're pretty comfortable," Katniss tells her. "But I don't need them, honest. They look better on you anyway."

Effie shakes her head, smiling, ready to politely deflect the compliment, no doubt. But at the last second, she stops and looks up at Katniss. "Do you really think so?"

"Yeah."

It's only one word, but it seems to mean the world to Effie, whose soft smile now is unlike any Katniss has ever seen her give before.

"Thank you, again," says Effie.

That smile makes sense to Katniss later, when she is working on the book. It isn't just the compliment that makes the difference, it's the person who gives it. Here, where fashion is of minimal if any importance, Katniss' praise has made all the difference.

There is, in fact, a first time for everything.

* * *

Katniss heads for Haymitch's after lunch with an offering of a few rolls of bread rolled up in a cloth napkin. Since Peeta's return, Greasy Sae makes sure that Haymitch has food to eat and is not living in filth, but Katniss still sees to him from time to time. It isn't lost on her that he never made good on his promise to do the same, but she can't fault him for it. His grief has more years in it than hers, and far different horrors.

She finds him out back with a bottle of white liquor, watching his geese eat the grass about his house. Wordlessly, she sits with him, unfolding the napkin.

"You make those?" he asks, eyeing the bread buns, then her, with suspicion.

"No."

Satisfied, he grabs one and munches away.

"Do you think I'm crazy for defending Effie to the rest of the district?"

He snorts. "You don't waste any time, do you, sweetheart?" He rolls his eyes, swallows the bite he's just spoken around. "Now, what are you talking about?"

"She didn't tell you what she's here for when you talked?"

"I wouldn't exactly call what we did yesterday 'talking'."

Katniss frowns at him. "She's here to see about filming a documentary about Twelve. It sounds sort of like a propo, only less… twisted."

"That's Heavensbee, all right. Always looking for a good show to win the people's hearts." He chuckles wryly, taking a swig from his bottle.

"It was her idea, though." When he arches his eyebrows at her, she goes on, "She wanted an excuse to come here and see us for longer than a day or two."

"She told you that?"

"She told Peeta."

"And I'm part of that 'us'," he says more than asks, the sarcasm in his voice as heavy as the alcohol on his breath.

Katniss rolls her eyes. "Peeta definitely is, and I am, as far as I can tell. I assume she meant you, too. She's known you the longest out of all of us."

"'Known' isn't the word I'd use. Point taken, though," he adds hastily when she fixes a glare on him. "So, what happened? I don't recall there being a raging mob yesterday. I'm sure I would've heard it from here."

Katniss summarizes yesterday's trip into town, and Haymitch eats, giving her much needed silence on his part.

"I just couldn't stand it, hearing them say those things," she finishes, shrugging. She leaves out that it reminded her of Gale. She hasn't told that to anyone, and she doesn't think she ever will.

"Well, if it comforts you any, I don't think you're crazy."

"Really?"

He nods, inhales deeply.

"But?" she prompts some seconds later.

Shaking his head, he shrugs. "I wouldn't have been as… poetic. I think you want this whole documentary thing to happen just as much as she does."

Does she? The last thing Katniss wants is to be on television again, to be followed by cameras day in and day out for however long it will take to get the right footage. But it isn't about her. Effie would have told her that right away. It's about the district, their recovery as a people and a place. It will mean new faces to see if she goes into town with Peeta again. It will mean excitement, even if all those cameras and equipment are a nuisance at first. It will mean reconnecting with the rest of Panem on their terms and on the same footing.

"Do you want it to happen?" she asks.

Haymitch shrugs again. "I don't care what happens as long as I'm not involved."

Katniss turns her head and watches the geese, telling herself that's how she feels, too.

* * *

Early in the afternoon, Effie comes to Katniss' house, nearly shaking with excitement.

"They said yes!" she says, beaming. "Oh, I must tell Plutarch at once. But I had to tell you two first! This is all thanks to you!"

She kisses both Peeta and Katniss on the cheek and nearly bounces all the way to the door. Before she grabs the doorknob, she turns and clasps her hands together in front of her. "We should celebrate! I don't know how, but we should!"

"Go talk to Heavensbee," Peeta says, chuckling. "We'll let you know if we think of something."

And they do, a few minutes after she leaves. Katniss prepares the meat, and Peeta bakes a cake. Effie sets the table when she arrives, lamenting the fact that she didn't think to bring decorations with her. Even Haymitch manages to come through with two unopened bottles of wine. He seems to have showered, too, which Katniss will be sure to thank him for later on Effie's behalf.

Katniss and Peeta accept the wine he pours them, but they do not drink more than a few sips. The whole affair is very simple, a mockery of the feasts the old Capitol used to hold, but Effie looks as happy as if they were eating in the penthouse.

"I'm just so happy that I get to come back," she says, shutting her eyes, savoring the fact of her return trip to Twelve. "I get to come back."

"And the bonus at the end of the year won't be so bad, either, I bet," Haymitch says.

Katniss shoots him a glare, but he is too busy sipping at his wine to notice. Effie, meanwhile, pulls herself together.

"If by bonus you mean that I can help this district, then, yes, it will be wonderful."

Haymitch snorts. "I've got to hand it to you, it's not a bad scheme you cooked up. You're getting paid to come out here for, what, therapy?"

"Excuse me?" Effie demands.

"Is your fancy doctor back home not worth what you're paying him?"

"That's enough," Peeta says, his gaze hard.

"What? I'm curious," Haymitch sneers. "I'm trying to understand how this works. You get to use us - and this entire district - because… why, you spent a few months in prison and it's too much?"

Peeta narrows his eyes. "Haymitch-"

"Try a lifetime of grief."

"Haymitch, _stop_," Katniss tells him.

"No, it's the guilt, isn't it? That's what's-"

"_Haymitch_," Katniss begins, but she doesn't get to say the rest. A slice of cake flies across the table and lands on Haymitch's cheek, splattering the side of his head with icing as it slides onto his shirt.

Katniss turns to the source, a livid Effie, and realizes she had been so intent on getting Haymitch to stop that she hadn't spared so much as a glance at Effie.

She is standing, colored frosting drying on her trembling hand. Her breathing is slow, deep, and deliberate, and her eyes shine with unshed tears.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" she tells Haymitch. "That we had perfect lives in the Capitol? That this is what I've chosen for my penance?"

Her silence dares him to speak, but all he does is shrug.

Rattled, her voice shakes, rising in volume and pitch seemingly of its own accord. "You think the people in the districts were the only ones whose lives Snow made difficult? You don't know _anything_!"

Covering her mouth with her hand, she glances at Katniss and Peeta as if in apology. Katniss manages to see the tears start to fall from her eyes before she leaves as quickly as her feet will allow.

When the door shuts, Katniss turns on Haymitch. "What was that about?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but Peeta cuts him off.

"How drunk are you right now?" he demands. "You weren't there. You have _no idea_ what you were talking about."

"Forgive me for not being convinced," Haymitch retorts, wiping cake off his face with a cloth napkin.

"You _do_ care what happens with the documentary," Katniss says. She stares him down, but he will not meet her eyes. "You don't want it to happen at all."

"I don't see why she has to come out here with a whole crew of people just because she feels lonely in her big, crowded city."

"I do." Now, he does meet her gaze. Peeta looks at her, too, but these words are for Haymitch. "I spent _days_ in this house barely moving. You said you'd come see me, but you didn't. Greasy Sae made sure I didn't starve. Her granddaughter came to help, too, but I didn't care. I wasn't alone, but I needed Prim. I needed Finnick. I needed Rue. And I couldn't have them. I wanted to die."

She skips the part about Buttercup, about Peeta and the evening primrose bushes. Those details are irrelevant. "We all lost something in the rebellion. A lot of us lost nearly everything. Effie wants to be here because no one else understands that like we do."

"You don't know what it was like in the prisons," Peeta adds, more quietly this time. "You have no idea."

Haymitch looks at his glass of wine. "So why don't you tell me, then."

Peeta shakes his head. "That's not for me to say."

"You need to apologize to her," Katniss says.

"I _what_?"

"You upset her," Peeta says.

"You _made her cry_," Katniss adds. "And you aren't drunk enough to get away with it."

Haymitch slams his cake-covered napkin on the table and stands, nearly knocking the chair over. "I'm going to clean up," he says. "Which, if you'll notice, is all _her_ fault. Make _her_ apologize."

He grabs the remaining bottle of wine and shuffles out of the house, holding a hand to his head.

Peeta gets up to clear the table, stacking plates, putting the silverware in a pile. Katniss sighs.

"At least she didn't throw a knife," she says, but even she can't manage a smile at her failed attempt at cheer.

"I hope he liked the cake," he says.

Katniss manages a quiet laugh. She hopes she'll never have to be without Peeta.


	5. The Glittering Capitol, Pt 1

**TRIGGER WARNING**: dubious consent.

* * *

_Year of the 72nd Hunger Games_

She has seen President Snow countless times on television, but this is the first time that she sees him in person. It is an honor, she thinks, not only to speak with him face to face, but for him to have requested to see _her_, Effie Trinket, escort for a district whose tributes rarely make it past the first few days of any Games.

But the elation drains from her all too quickly. He is impeccable in dress, speech, and manners, and he is, like Effie, efficient in his dealings. This is not a standard social call.

"Do you enjoy your work, Miss Trinket?"

His voice sends a shiver down her spine, but she ignores it and gives him her brightest grin. She's just nervous, surely. "Yes, I do."

He clasps his hands together behind his back, and his smile changes the slightest bit. "Then why, may I ask, would you make such remarks as you did several nights ago while in the company of the escorts for Districts Five, Six, and Nine?"

It comes back to her all at once, the four of them seated around a table in an exclusive lounge, discussing the upcoming Games, placing fake bets on how likely it is that One or Two will win the crown this year, whether one of the tributes from Nine will get a chance to weave some warm blanket or cape out of grass, whether this will finally be the year at least one of the tributes from Twelve will put up a fight and make it five days in unscathed.

"I hope so," Effie had said to them, her smile fading at the edges. "They look so sad every year at the reaping."

"I don't think they ever look happy, if you ask me," said the escort from Six. "But I suppose that's their life. They don't get to live like we do, and then on the one day a year when they finally get to see something wonderful happen in person, they're sad because that's all they know how to be."

The others agreed, but Effie shook her head. "That isn't what it feels like. You haven't been there. You don't know. It's a terribly dreary place. They _should _be excited every year. I try so hard to get them to smile, but they never do. The ones that don't have stony faces are in tears, and the tributes- last year, the boy was thirteen, and he wouldn't stop crying. I had to have the Avoxes give him pastries and things every so often just so he'd look happy about something. I didn't know what else to do."

"How infuriating," the escort from Five said. "Ungrateful, too!"

"Yes," Effie agreed. "But sad, too." Breathing deeply, she shrugged. "Oh, well. This year I'll wear red when I go. Maybe that will cheer them up!"

Clearly, shifting the conversation to fashion had been too little, too late. But wasn't she free to say what she wanted? She had been in the company of colleagues. Why would her comments merit this attention and apparent censure from the president himself?

"I was only-" she starts, then takes a breath to compose her thoughts. "I only meant to express my concerns about the district I see to every year."

"And what are those concerns?"

"Well- I think that they seem helplessly lost sometimes. It's all I can do to try and make them see how lucky they are."

President Snow nods and takes a few steps to her left. His brow furrows slightly, making more pronounced the wrinkles he might not have if he, like so many others, had undergone all the surgeries available to him. Finally, he stops and faces her.

"It doesn't matter what you _think_, Miss Trinket," he says slowly. "What matters is how you _act_. You have not acted according to the demands of your position. You have not acted in a manner befitting a respected, even admired citizen such as yourself."

He pauses, presumably so that she can say something in her defense, but she is as a statue, still and silent.

He continues, "It is very lucky for you that your colleagues did as they should have done."

In the pause that follows, she says the only thing that comes to mind. "Will you be looking for a replacement escort?"

President Snow chuckles, but there is no mirth in his laugh. "No. You have been the very picture of what the spirit of the Hunger Games should be, and this small incident has done no damage. Henceforth you will behave accordingly, I'm sure."

"Of course."

"I expect nothing but excellence from you."

"Nothing less than that." She smiles now, her escort smile, effervescent and proud. She _is_ proud to be a part of the annual festivities. She would not have applied for the position otherwise.

He smiles, but it gives her no comfort.

Halfway to the door, he turns to face her again. "I nearly forgot. I've a favor to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"We have a new Head Gamemaker this year. A very promising talent, but very new to the particulars of his role. I can think of no better person to help him become comfortable with it. To make him feel-" he trails off, tilting his head sideways as he searches for the right words "-welcome."

The slight change in his smile tells her everything, but it doesn't prepare her for how swiftly his request comes into play. He steps into the hallway and gestures for someone to come near, and within moments, he is standing there, the new Head Gamemaker, the picture of perfection from his polished shoes to his expertly trimmed hair.

"And here she is," says President Snow. "Seneca Crane, allow me to introduce the wonderful Effie Trinket."

"It's so lovely to meet you," Effie says automatically, smiling because it is what she does best.

Seneca Crane comes to her and takes her hand, bowing graciously as he brushes a light kiss on her gloved fingers. "The pleasure is all mine."

"I trust by now you know what to do when someone is new to a place, Miss Trinket."

"Why, of course, President Snow! I would hardly be where I am today if I didn't, would I?" Except she needs a step-by-step guide for this, for all that this implies, for how to process the totality of this exchange and to decide if she is thinking too hard or not hard enough.

But the nod the president gives her as he leaves is all the confirmation she needs. This is her punishment for misbehaving. This is what she must do for him to trust her again.

With a deep breath, she regains control of herself and gives Seneca Crane a grin. "Let's begin, shall we? There are so many things you'll need to get used to now that you're a high-profile public figure."

To his credit, the Head Gamemaker is an absolute gentleman. Effie doesn't know if it's because he is very much aware that she can't refuse him or because he actually believes her show of affection, but it doesn't matter. He makes it easy without even knowing it, makes it only natural to spend the night in his bed.

She tells herself that it could be worse, but she has trouble believing it.

Tonight, she thinks she might be able to understand some small part of the sadness that haunts life in District Twelve.

* * *

_Year of the 73rd Hunger Games_

This year, President Snow approaches her during a social function that she is, for once, not responsible for.

"Simply marvelous," he says to her, nodding at the table behind her.

Effie thinks she could have done much better with it, but out loud, she agrees.

"Shall we talk somewhere a bit more private?"

She follows him as he leads the way through the mansion, noting the turns they take in case she needs to find her way back on her own. The room he shows her into is not far, though; she'll be able to find the main hall again by sound if she forgets the way.

"I must congratulate you," he says once he has shut the door. "You have exceeded my expectations. That is not an easy task by far."

"Thank you," she replies, and she hates how small her voice sounds, how tiny she feels in his presence even in her very high heels.

"Seneca has been asking after you."

Her cheeks go pale beneath her make-up. "Has he?"

President Snow nods. "He is quite taken with you."

"That's- very kind of him. I'm flattered."

"He tells me that it is exceedingly difficult to get you away from your work."

"It is. There's always so much to do, even when it's not time for the Games."

He nods again. "I find that level of dedication admirable. However, I don't think it wise to neglect social duties for professional ones."

"But-" She pauses and makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. If she had not known what to say before, she surely doesn't know. "I can't," she blurts. She lifts a hand to her mouth to stop herself. "That is- I can't fall behind in my work."

"Miss Trinket-"

"Haven't I done what you asked me to?"

For a moment, he is silent, and Effie is afraid she has sealed her fate.

"Yes," he answers, "and you have started something over which, unfortunately, neither you nor I have any control."

Her hands begin to tremble; she clasps them together in front of her as she shakes her head. "It wouldn't be proper. An escort and a Gamemaker? People would say all sorts of things."

"They might." He shrugs. "But a good enough performance can convince anyone otherwise."

"I see," she says quietly, when all she wants to do is scream at him that no, she will not do this again, she doesn't want this, she's sorry she made a mistake in the first place. Inhaling deeply, she pats her eyebrows with a fingertip. "I haven't yet said hello to him tonight. I'll go find him."

President Snow nods and opens the door for her. It's one less thing for her to do as she walks into her own private arena.

* * *

_Year of the 74th Hunger Games_

Effie receives numerous gifts over the course of the year. The vast majority of them are from Seneca, presents of fine wine or custom made jewelry. Her friends never fail to remind her how lucky she is and how jealous they are, no matter how she tries to tell them it isn't serious, he is just exceedingly generous. The truth, she discovers, is the perfect lie. It hurts no one, and it helps her play her part.

The remaining few gifts are from President Snow. They are alarmingly specific, and after a while, he omits the explanatory notes. (_"I believe you were telling your friends you wanted these for your birthday this year,"_ read the first, which came with a pair of sparkling shoes. She had nearly canceled the evening's outing upon reading it, but that was exactly what he wanted to be sure she didn't do.) She realizes now that President Snow never intended to forgive her unintentional transgression. Whatever freedom and privacy she thought she had before are gone.

Surprisingly, it is Seneca who makes this bearable. She still doesn't know if he is ignorant of what is really going on, but it makes no difference either way. As long as they both perform as they should, everything will be fine.

The night before she leaves for District Twelve, he gives her a pink flower pin to match her wig. He puts it on the lapel of the green suit she'll wear for the reaping and tells her, "For luck. Maybe this will be the year one of your tributes wins."

"Maybe," she says. "But don't you go doing us any favors!"

"Never," he assures her.

That night, she wishes things were different, that he were giving that smile to someone who could love him.

* * *

She slips that year when she takes Katniss' side in the private training session incident. It was dangerous, and it was downright rude, but Effie still means what she said. Katniss' arrow didn't hurt anyone, and Seneca and the others _should_ have been paying attention to her.

The eleven Katniss is awarded is good enough news that the group of them celebrate, but not too long into the hugging and clapping, Effie remembers who is behind the score and who is behind the entirety of the Games. Katniss may have scored well, but life in the arena will be nothing short of torture for her, and part of that will undoubtedly be because Effie has clearly not learned to keep her mouth shut.

* * *

Hours after Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch have left on the train to District Twelve, Effie comes home to a gift: a single, white rose on her dining room table.

"_I am sorry for your loss,"_ reads the little card hanging from a string tied around the rose's stem.

For one awful moment, she thinks he means the new victors. Then the pieces fall into place, and she panics, trying everything she can to reach Seneca.

The doctor who returns her call later that night is nothing short of blunt when she tells her that Seneca has committed suicide.

* * *

_Year of the 75th Hunger Games_

"This is dreadful," Effie tells Peeta after he tells her and the rest what has got to be the most horrible thing she has ever heard of a tribute doing for his or her private training session. "That sort of thinking… it's forbidden, Peeta. Absolutely. You'll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss." She knows that firsthand now, how completely it can ruin someone if they dare oppose the Games, the Capitol, the president himself.

Not seconds later, Katniss proves her wrong on one point: Peeta has _not_ done the most horrible thing Effie has ever heard of for a private training session.

While Cinna restates the horror of the mock hanging in disbelief and Katniss explains herself with not a hint of remorse, Effie fights back the sobs that want to rip her apart in front of them all. They are going to die. Plutarch Heavensbee will, on President Snow's orders, kill Peeta and Katniss slowly and painfully, and Effie will have to watch and pretend her tears are solely for the wedding she and the rest of Panem will never get to see.

"Oh, Katniss," Effie breathes, finally, because she must say something. "How do you even know about that?"

"Is it a secret? President Snow didn't act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know," Katniss says.

And despite the rudeness of it, Effie gets up and leaves, a napkin pressed to her face in the hopes of salvaging some of her dignity. Once in her room, she sinks into the plush cushioned seat by her vanity and weeps.

The one piece of mercy in this is that because President Snow himself told Katniss about Seneca's death, he has no reason to believe Effie told her beforehand. But what good is that? It would be better for him to take out his anger on Effie, because she is nothing anymore, she is no one. Katniss is the reason District Twelve smiled during the Victory Tour. She and Peeta and their bravery are the reasons why even Effie was upset on reaping day this year.

She allows herself ten minutes to let it all out and another five to pull herself together. She still has a job to do, a duty and a role to perform. If this is the only thing she can do to help her precious pearls from District Twelve, then she will do it.

* * *

"I need some air," Haymitch says, getting up from the couch with a groan.

Effie glances up at him as he reaches for the half empty bottle of liquor he has, until now, been using to fill his glass. "_Now_? They're in the middle of putting their plan to work!" It's a complicated one, and she doesn't really understand it, but it seems like it'll work out. If nothing else, Haymitch can probably explain it to her better than Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith have been for the audience.

"I have until midnight, and all of Panem is watching," Haymitch protests. "I'm sure I'll catch all the action and feel like I'm right there."

She purses her lips and turns to the television screen. "All right. Just stay sober enough to make it back safely."

In response, he takes a swig straight from the bottle. She rolls her eyes. "Good night, Haymitch."

"Same."

Hours later, when Katniss sets off the explosion that rips the arena wide open, the broadcast goes black, and Effie feels as blank as the screen in front of her.

Peacekeepers arrive in minutes. They do not answer her questions, and they pay no attention to her erratic breathing and wide-eyed shock. They restrain her and march her down the hall. Her only protest earns her a fist to the side of her head. Thus disoriented, she loses track of time and space.

The next thing she knows, she is held up by two Peacekeepers in a room she doesn't recognize, and President Snow is staring her down with a cold rage she has never before seen in anyone's eyes.

"What an extraordinary performance you've given," he begins. For the first time, she identifies his smell: roses and blood. Her heart nearly stops. "It is a rare person that can convince me so thoroughly. But I'm afraid it's time for your curtain call. Your involvement in this treason is far too obvious to hide any further."

She is too afraid to protest, but even if she weren't, she isn't sure she could find her voice. It's lost somewhere in the whirlwind in her head. What treason? What is he talking about? How can she have been involved in something she never even knew about until this very moment?

"The subtlety of it," he continues, smiling with the air of someone admiring a work of art. "Simply marvelous. It's such a terrible shame that you chose the wrong side. But so it is. You have acted against the Capitol, and now the Capitol shall act against you."

As the Peacekeepers drag her out of the room, President Snow takes the white rose from his lapel and breathes in its scent. Then he presses it to his lips and lifts it to her as if in a toast.

He has sent her off to a fate worse than death.


	6. Truce

**TRIGGER WARNING:** discussion of dubious consent.

* * *

Up in the guest room, Effie curls into a ball in the corner of her bed, trembling with the urge to shatter every fragile object in the house. Peeta, however, has done nothing to deserve such an offense to his hospitality, so she settles for squeezing the fabric of her blankets in her fists and gritting her teeth as tears scald her cheeks. This is a misery she hasn't felt in years, though it is far worse than she remembers.

She stays like this for what must be hours, releasing the tension in her frame only when her muscles start to ache in earnest. As she pats her cheeks dry with the tissues on the bedside table, she is back there again, however many minutes or hours ago it was. She hears herself yelling and winces. Haymitch had deserved her anger, but not her violence.

It isn't in her nature to behave that way. She remembers now the dumbfounded silence in the wake of her outburst. Her cheeks burn with shame.

A few deep, calming breaths later, she grabs the house phone and dials Haymitch.

"What?" he answers gruffly, voice rough. He's just downed a strong shot, surely.

For a moment, she considers hanging up, but propriety overrides pride. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have yelled at you. Or thrown that slice of cake at you."

"Oh." Considerably calmer, he clears his throat. She hears him set down whatever bottle he's drinking from. "Well, while we're at it, Peeta says I provoked you, so I guess we're even. And, also," he adds with evident distaste, "Katniss says I should apologize."

She almost laughs. The small smile his reluctant admission draws from her, though, is enough to carry on her voice. "Are you always this rude on the phone?"

He snorts. "Do you want to make peace or not?"

"I'm sorry. Of course I do."

"Peeta suggested we talk this out face to face."

"That's a good idea."

"Right. I can be over in a few minutes, unless you'd rather wait until tomorrow."

"No, it's fine." Better to get this out of the way as soon as possible. Her work is starting to pile up, and she has to leave soon. "I'll make us some coffee."

* * *

They both take their coffee black, Haymitch likely out of habit, and Effie because she can't stomach the thought of sugar or cream. The drink is hot and bitter on her tongue, but it does not give her the words to say. Maybe she should have asked him to supply them with liquor for this instead.

"I really am sorry about the cake," she says finally. "Such a waste."

"He'll make more," he says, shrugging. Setting his cup down, he leans back in his chair and meets her gaze head on. "Seems what I said struck a nerve."

She winces. "Yes. I overreacted, though."

"There must be a good reason for that. You're not the overreacting type unless someone spills food on the tablecloth."

Nodding slowly, she looks down at the fabric covering this table. "There is. There's a lot you were never aware of, you know. Things could be bad for us, too. Not nearly as bad as it was in the districts, of course, but… we had our troubles."

"Enlighten me."

The small measure of disdain she hears in his voice doesn't throw her. She expects it, really, from someone who has seen and suffered so much. Still, it makes her pause. Did this really merit getting so worked up over? Will he laugh at her again and tell her she's a silly child once he's heard?

The sound of pouring draws her from her thoughts. She looks up in time to see Haymitch adding white liquor from a flask into his cup of coffee. Once done, he leans over and does the same for her, a silent peace offering to ease her nerves.

She sips gratefully, the sting of the alcohol on her throat shifting elsewhere to her skin, her scalp. That is not what she means to tell him, though. That set of memories and wrongs is for another time.

"I said something about this district once that was… inappropriate, by Capitol standards." She shuts her eyes briefly. The smell of bloody roses in memory mixes with the scent of coffee and alcohol in the air. "I don't know how it got to him. It wasn't even that big of a slip up, just a few stray comments on a night out. But apparently it was very much a big thing, because as soon as he heard, President Snow went to speak with me."

She remembers it all too clearly. For a moment, it's as if Snow is in this very room, imposing in a pristine, grey suit, making her feel impossibly small.

"I thought I'd get off with a warning," she continues, shaking her head. "That was the year Seneca Crane got promoted to Head Gamemaker. And President Snow-" In that second, she realizes she has never said this to anyone before, and the words sound trite and filthy, unworthy of even the lowest of people, of even Snow himself. "He made me sleep with him."

Haymitch straightens in his seat so suddenly that the chair shifts beneath him, scraping against the floor. Effie jumps, shutting her eyes tight, waiting for anything at all, though certainly not ready. She's never been ready for anything, a spoiled Capitol princess to the core.

"Only once, though?" he asks after a full minute of silence.

"Only once that year, yes." More quietly, she finishes, "The year after that, he strongly suggested I reciprocate Seneca's continued interest."

"Shit, Effie."

She cracks open her eyes, not sure what to expect. But there is nothing to fear. The anger in Haymitch's eyes is directed elsewhere. At Snow, definitely. Possibly also at Seneca.

"It could have been worse," she says, the words spilling from her with little thought. "Seneca was at least kind."

"He was a Gamemaker," he growls. "'Kind' is not a word that defines his type."

"Well, yes, that's true, there was a part of him that was cold and ruthless, but he was always a gentleman." When Haymitch snorts, she says, "Really."

"You were his _whore_, Effie. He _paid_ for you."

"I don't know that he ever knew of or requested Snow's involvement," Effie says, her voice hard, her accent stronger than it's been in days. It grates on her ears, reminding her of everything she wants to forget.

Haymitch, meanwhile, shakes his head. "You're defending him?" He snorts, then frowns. "Did you love him?"

"No." There is no doubt in her mind about that. There might have been, once, but even then, knowing that she'd had no choice in the matter had made it clear enough that it was all an elaborate ruse. "But I did think of him as a friend."

He says nothing after that, drinking his coffee and shaking his head from time to time. Effie drinks hers, too, thinking for once of the good memories, the less painful ones. They may have been founded on a lie, but that sense of safety and that quiet comfort had been real, at least to her.

Finally, he sets down his cup of coffee and sighs. "I should get going."

She nods. "Of course."

He stands up, rolls his shoulders, straightens his back enough that she can hear his joints crack. "So. Girl's got the boy, boy's got the girl. I've got my liquor and my geese." He pauses, waits for her to meet his gaze before going on. "Who've you got?"

"My reports," she answers at once. She doesn't spare a thought for the fact that he asked after a someone, that he has personified alcohol and ascribed sentience to his pets. "I need to finish them right away. I leave the day after tomorrow, and they must be perfect by then."

"You ready to go back?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You've been here too long," he says with half a grin that does nothing to lighten the gravity of his voice. "You're used to it, I bet. What will it be like to go back now without people you trust to talk to?"

The bare truth in his words cuts deep, and she tenses from head to toe. "I'll be fine," she says tightly. "I was fine before."

"Fine enough that you came up with a mighty big plan to get yourself over here for days on end."

"Good night, Haymitch."

He looks offended for about a second, then he gives her a messy bow, reaches for his flask, and leaves.

Effie washes out their cups and goes upstairs to work on her reports until she falls asleep at her desk.

* * *

"Do you need help with anything?"

"No, but thank you, Peeta." Effie stands by Peeta's house, facing the path to town and the train station. She keeps reminding herself she's coming back; it's the only thing that keeps the fluttering in her stomach from getting worse. "Oh, there is one thing - say good-bye to Katniss for me? I'm sorry I wasn't up early enough to catch her before she left for the woods."

Peeta nods, smiling. "Sure thing."

"It's silly, isn't it? I'll be back soon." She grins, clutching the handles of her bags. "Would you like me to bring you anything?"

"You'll miss your train," he tells her, shaking his head.

She nods, kisses his cheek, and goes off. She passes the builders on the way and dares to look at them this time. Her courage earns her a few waves, but even if they offer her nothing but a stare, she smiles. They'll see, in time, how much good this will do. It may have been born of a selfish wish, but it is becoming bigger than just her, bigger than Peeta and Katniss and Haymitch, bigger than this whole district.

They will see, and they will be proud of their own courage.


	7. Green Light

When she arrives at the Capitol, Effie has just enough time to drop her things off at her apartment before her meeting with Heavensbee and the other network executives. Normally she is involved with making sure things happen, analyzing the situation, figuring out the creative team's logistical needs, and coordinating the work flow of a group of people to ensure timely, efficient performance of required duties. Today, she finds herself in the role of the people she's always served, and she likes it.

She gets unanimous approval and a maximum of one week to put together her team. Heavensbee gives her a list of people to start with.

"They're all excellent," he insists.

"Thank you. I'll be sure to speak with them." Most of the people that had come to mind for camera and technical work are dead now, so the leads are more appreciated than she can say.

Outside, it is sunny and mild. The reconstruction in this sector of the city is almost complete. People are more subdued in their dress and manner, but overall it seems like they are finding a new normal that is close to the old. Effie can't blame them, really. She was much the same in the immediate aftermath of the rebellion. It has taken one week in District Twelve for her to stop wearing gloves and invest in a sleek, solid pair of flats. She doesn't think she'll completely stop dressing as she has her whole life, and she certainly thinks the denizens of the Capitol will be hard pressed to give up the colors of their previous life, but she does believe they'll begin to understand those outside their old world.

And her documentary might be just the thing to get them started on that.

* * *

That night, she dreams of bombs raining down from the sky on the first day of filming in District Twelve. When she wakes, she remembers a documentary film on the Dark Days she had seen once in school. It had ended with clips of the bombing of Thirteen and an ominous voiceover about the high price being paid for peace. Any mention of Thirteen had made her uncomfortable since, even in dreams, and even worse now.

The sky is still dark out, but she is no longer tired. She gets up, makes tea, and sits on the couch with her notes from today. She already has a good idea of who she might like to work with, but it's only fair to give everyone a chance. Someone might even surprise her.

Her phone rings, and she jumps, remembering for a moment the explosions in her dream. At this hour, she expects a wrong number or a silly prank.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Haymitch?" It must be a prank. A horrible, drunken prank.

"Evenin'."

"Are you drunk?"

"No." He sighs, his breath crackling over the line. She could swear she smells the alcohol on his breath. "I'm all out, and the geese are not inclined to hear me out tonight. So I thought, 'Who is most likely to be awake and alone at this hour?'"

"I'm flattered," she retorts, rolling her eyes. "It's lucky for you I was awake, you know."

"Sounds like the odds are in my favor."

"Don't say that." She draws her legs up to her chest, wrapping her free arm around them. "It isn't funny."

"No." He coughs and clears his throat. "So. What's keeping you up tonight?"

"Work," she says, but when he snorts, she gives up on lying. There's no point being upset with him for calling, not when he's not bothering to hide his own intentions much either. "You know."

"I thought as much."

"What about you?" She shifts, relaxing into the cushions.

"I stabbed my bedside table about an hour ago. One of my better sober nights."

She winces. "I… didn't wake up screaming."

"Looks like neither of us is doing so bad, then."

They talk for an hour, mostly about nothing, occasionally sharing one thing or another about how the nights are and how the days can be. Finally Effie's eyelids start to feel heavy again. Before they end the call, he makes her promise to bring him back some liquor.

"A little something to keep me going 'til the next train comes."

"Sure thing," she says, smiling. "Good night, Haymitch."

When she falls asleep again, she dreams of sunlight filtering through the thick leaves of a quiet forest.

* * *

He calls every night for the rest of the week, though earlier now after one time he actually woke her up. She tells him about the people she's interviewing, and he tells her about his geese.

"You should tell Plutarch about them," she says to him one night. "It sounds like they would make a great comedy show."

"You keep Heavensbee and his cameras the hell away from my geese."

She settles on her crew two days before their scheduled departure, and it's Haymitch who hears first who will be going back with her. The next day, Heavensbee irons out their tickets and general production schedule, and once that's in Effie's hands, she needs no prompting.

Every waking moment is spent double checking preparations for departure and phoning people here and in District Twelve. Coordinating an entire production is a monumental task, but the stress and intensity of her years working on the Games have prepared her for it. Finally, she is able to put her skills to good use.

"Did you get me a bottle of something?" Haymitch asks her the night before she is set to return.

"I did, and I think you'll like it."

"As long as it's good, I don't care what it is. The next supply train is scheduled to come in a few days after you get here."

"Then I am happy to be your life saver." She is, too. She is downright excited about the whole thing, more than she ever was for the Games.

After promising one more time that no one will film him or his geese, she climbs into bed and has a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, she puts on a bright, floral dress and her shoes from District Twelve, grabs her bags, and heads out to meet her team at the train station. When she gets settled in her compartment and finally has a moment to breathe, she allows herself a glance at her reflection. She's wearing considerably less make-up than the last time she made the trip, evident mostly in that her eyebrows are only lightly powdered now. She touches her cheek, tracing the stretch of new tissue that is invisible beneath the powder and foundation.

Away from the people she used to feel so at home with, even what little she has applied, which is for her own comfort rather than to follow any trend, feels like too much. The people in District Twelve wear their scars and flaws without a care in the world. Some even seem proud of them, not bothering to cover them up even when the sun beats down on everything in sight and the imperfections stand out against the sunburns and deeper tans.

Will there come a day when she isn't frightened by the stories carved onto her?

Haymitch is right: Effie _has_ gotten used to Twelve. It has burrowed its way inside of her and taken root. It colors the way she sees things and demands she give nothing but her best in everything she does. This project, she realizes, has never been about her. It is about the people who have walked through fire and come out alive. It is about showing Panem that they were never the weaklings the Games made them out to be. The home of the Mockingjay is a bright star amid the darkness.

Heavensbee will have his show, but it is District Twelve that will shine.

And Effie will show all of Panem why she can't wait to be back.


	8. The Language of Trust

The crew get to work right away, setting up camp in a house with three standing walls and a roof, and going into the streets with hand-held cameras. Effie introduces them to the builders and residents, pointing out the changes that have come to pass since last week. Some of the builders take it further, discussing the several smaller structures that they have recently completed and are now inhabited.

"The couple living in that house are having a baby soon," says Oliver, a lean man whose hair has just begun to turn grey. "It'll be the first child born here who's born free."

"Goodness, she was pregnant through the entire rebellion?" Effie shakes her head, staring at the little house. "That must have been so difficult for them."

"They found out when we were in District Thirteen," Oliver says. "All they wanted was for their baby to have the chance to grow up somewhere safe."

"They got their wish."

Oliver indicates the next building to be completed soon, and the people working on it throw in some anecdotes about what it used to be and how now it will be better. Their obvious pride lights up their faces when they talk. If it's this touching in the raw, it will be spectacular in the final cut.

It's almost dark when Effie is finally able to get away and go through her hastily dropped off things for the gifts she'd promised to bring back. She leaves a set of paintbrushes and a fancy knife with Peeta, and then, bag in hand, she heads to Haymitch's house.

She knocks loudly on the door before letting herself in. "Only me!" she calls, just in case, but there's no need. Haymitch is standing in front of the stove, glaring at a pot as if it's personally offended him.

"You're late," he tells her, not looking up.

"I had a busy, busy day." Setting the bag on the counter, she waits for him to turn to her, but he is adamant on staring his cooking ware down. "You do realize that a watched pot never boils, don't you?"

"Bull," he says at once. "They boil just fine, watched or not."

"All right. What are you doing?"

"Contemplating whether or not I can fit a goose in here."

"Haymitch! Those geese are your pets! They trust you!"

"Relax," he says, finally looking up at her as he shuts off the stove. "I was waiting for water to boil. Felt like coffee while I waited. No point now." She sighs, and he motions to the bag. "That it?"

Grinning proudly, she reaches inside the bag and produces a bottle of liquor. "This should be enough, I think."

He shakes his head. "You don't know me at all."

"You should cut back," she says as he gets them glasses and fills them with ice. Sighing, she fills them both.

As if in protest of her suggestion, he downs his first glass in one gulp, shutting his eyes against the sting. In that moment, she realizes his grimace is less about discomfort and more for relief. He doesn't waste a moment, setting the glass back down on the counter for a refill, which she does not deny him. It wasn't too long ago that she had found herself seeking solace in a bottle, after all.

"You know," she begins, taking a seat at the table, "you were right."

He plops into the chair across from her. "About what?"

"About why I came here." She looks down into her glass. "I really did just come here for me at first. I thought I would go insane if I stayed there. No one really understands, you know - sorry. Of course you know. You know better than I do. But what I mean is that, well, the people I interacted with, none of them could even begin to imagine what it's like to-"

"Not unless they've been there," he interrupts.

She nods. "Anyway, it was very selfish of me to do what I did, but things have changed. Now that I've been here a while, now that I've been getting to know the people here, I really want it to go well."

"Well," he says, half smirking, "isn't that just touching."

"It's _true_," she insists, smiling, and she leaves it at that. He believes her. He would have told her so otherwise.

She drinks one glass to his three, doesn't stop him when he goes for number four. He makes addiction look easy, makes the memories look that simple to ignore. It can't be true, though, not for him with his victory, with dozens of children lost under his mentorship, with having helped orchestrate a rebellion that killed hundreds, thousands before succeeding.

"Thank you, by the way," she tells him.

"For what?"

"For last week. For keeping me company over the phone."

He shrugs.

"I mean it," she insists. "It's been a long time since I've had a friend."

He quirks his lips as if beginning to scoff, then shakes his head and reaches for the bottle. Lifting it in her direction, he holds it over her glass until she shakes her head. "It won't make you sick to keep sharing with me," he tells her, the smallest of smirks tugging back his mouth.

"It's for you," she says. "Besides, I have to be up early tomorrow."

"You and your schedules." He snorts. "Some things never change."

"Some things are better left the same." She stands, smiling, as he sets the bottle down.

"Well, at least it'll do your project good." He takes his glass and lifts it to her in a mock toast. "To tomorrow."

"To tomorrow," she repeats, nodding. "And to a good night."

* * *

For lunch the next day, Effie meets Peeta at Katniss' house. She brings over a pitcher of ice cold tea, a meager contribution in the face of his baking, but it's enough for him. They sit out on the back porch, watching the branches of the evergreens sway in the breeze.

"How did you like your gifts?" she asks, glancing at him as she leans back in her seat.

"The brushes are great, thank you. Katniss took the knife with her into the woods today, so she'll be able to tell you herself tonight or tomorrow, but she's definitely grateful."

"Good, I'm glad." She looks at their empty plates, at the nearly empty pitcher of tea, at the party cloudy sky. This small amount of downtime is a treasure, especially here, where even the wind knows to take a little break in the middle of the day. Nothing can be wrong here, "You seem as if you're doing very well."

"I am," he answers without a moment's hesitation. "I had a lot of help after I was rescued."

"I don't like to say this, but for a while, hearing what they did…" She trails off as the sounds and the screams come back to her, and she shakes her head quickly to push them aside. "I was afraid it would take longer, or-"

"I think everyone thought that," he says. "But even if they did, they never gave up on me."

"Of course they didn't. No one would."

"Johanna might have."

"I disagree. But then again, I don't know her. I know _you_."

He chuckles, shaking his head. When he quiets, he says, "I don't know why Katniss didn't."

"Because she loves you. She's the last person who'd give up on you. You never gave up on _her_."

He shakes his head, shrugging, the weight of things she'll never know almost visibly settling on his shoulders. "It doesn't matter, though. What's important is that we're here now." She nods, and he adds, "You look a lot better, too, even better than that first week you were here."

"Thanks to all of you," she says with a smile. "Even the people in town. I keep thinking about how things used to be, how we were taught not to bother with you because taking care of you was the government's job." She shakes her head, memories of school books and teachers' lessons, propaganda in the guise of education, passing before her mind's eye. "You here are all so much stronger than we ever were."

"It wasn't your fault. Most of you never had the chance to know better."

But Effie had, coming to the poorest of the districts every year; she had known the truth, and she had allowed herself to try to share it, and she had discovered why ignorance truly could be bliss in a world like their old one.

Shuddering, she looks at the sky, memorizing the bright blue and the fluffy clouds as she counts and breathes. "Thank you for having faith in me," she tells him quietly. "For not pushing me away after you came back here. I don't have very many friends anymore."

"I couldn't do that to you," Peeta says, his voice low now as he journeys back to that dark place with her. "I wouldn't."

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you had, you know. I did so many terrible things."

"You had to." He clears his throat, but the rough note to his words remains in her mind for when she replays it in her head later, when she needs comfort to dispel despair. He continues, "I don't know what it was like growing up the way you did, but I bet it was debilitating in its own way."

"You have no idea." She balls up her hands in tight fists. Her nails dig into her palms, the pressure keeping her focused, present. When it turns into pain, she stops. "I went to see my doctor last week. He said the change of setting might be good for me, but that he's worried about my having to skip so many appointments."

"You could still call him, though, right?"

She nods. "It isn't the same, though." Biting her lips, she takes a slow, deep breath. "Sometimes I spend half the time just sitting there. He says that's important, too, to… to remember, and to know there's someone physically there if it gets to be too much." And it does, sometimes. She remembers one session where she had lost herself so completely in the memories of darkness that it had taken at least fifteen minutes for him to help her come back, to convince her he was only there to help her and remind her that the past could not touch her. "I _can_ call him, yes, but it should be all right. There's a lot to be done."

"Keeping busy is good," he remarks, nodding, looking out at the trees. "Katniss is good at that."

"She's good at so many things." Effie glances down at her boots and smiles. "Does she sing much these days?"

"Not really," he says, shaking his head. "But she hums sometimes."

"Plutarch asked me to try getting Katniss to sing for the documentary, but I'm not going to."

He is quiet a moment, no doubt imagining the alternative, the look in Katniss' eyes if she were asked to perform again. "Thank you."

Peeta is looking at her when she meets his gaze, smiling faintly as the present clears the fog of recollection from his mind. The promise to protect Katniss from the last vestiges of the Capitol hangs between them, unspoken but almost palpable. The age of forced compliance is gone.


	9. Secrets between Friends

**TRIGGER WARNING:** torture, rape.

* * *

In the last light of day, Effie sits with Haymitch on the back stairs of his house as they make their way through the last of the whiskey. The empty bottle sits between them, and just behind that is a bowl of stale bread crumbs. She grabs a handful of them and tosses them as far as she can. The few geese that spot the treats hurry over to claim them.

Talking with Haymitch at the end of the work day is fast becoming part of her routine, not unlike the middle of the night phone calls were during her brief trip to the Capitol. He had even prepared in advance for this evening, had dragged a carpet from indoors out onto the steps, denying her the chance to protest the dirty floor.

As she shuts her eyes and breathes in deeply, the ice in his glass clinks. Wordlessly, she hands him hers, and he takes it at once, no questions asked.

"Why blue?" he asks a moment later. When she looks at him, she finds his brow creased and his eyes fixed on her wig. "Why the fake hair at all," he continues, "but why blue?"

She looks down at her empty palms and breathes, counting to ten. "I didn't see the sky the entire time I was in prison," she says softly. The images flash before her eyes, threatening to unleash their full force on her. She focuses on the lines on her palms to keep the looming storm at bay. "Obviously. No windows for traitors. I lost track of time from the moment they took me there." She feels the hands on her, hears her only exit being slammed shut. "I kept thinking, if I could just see the sky, it might be better."

The despair from those days shoots through her, swift but sharp. She meets his gaze, seeking anchor in the now, reassurance that she is no longer there. "With this, it's like I have the sky with me everywhere I go."

She looks away again, this time up at the darkening expanse overhead. The first stars are peeking through, unobstructed by the harsh lights of the city in which she'd spent her life. She knows their names from textbooks, but she hasn't really tried to identify them in years.

"As for why at all," she continues, "well… I'm afraid that's a secret I'll have to keep a while longer."

"Come on, throw me a bone here. What's a secret between friends?" He leans forward, seeking her gaze. "At least tell me what color your real hair is."

"Not so much lighter than yours," she says, chuckling quietly. She touches the sky blue curls at the back of her head and turns to face him. The back porch light casts a soft, golden glow on him, deepening the shadows on his face and putting a slight sparkle in his grey eyes. "Do you really want to know a secret?"

Whatever spell has fallen upon her, it has taken him in, too, because all the playfulness from a few seconds prior is gone when he nods.

"I still don't know why I was arrested."

He frowns. "You don't?"

"No. Not really. Snow said that I did a good job fooling him, but I didn't even know about the rebellion until the night Katniss blew up the force field in the arena."

He shifts, clearing his throat. "Far as I know, they arrested pretty much everyone with involved with the Games if they had contact with the districts."

"I know, but they executed a lot of them within days." Sighing, she shakes her head. "I mean, I've always thought it's because I was with you and Katniss and Peeta, so maybe Snow thought I was in on it from the start. But Cinna actually _was_ in on it, and he was executed before the rebellion really even started. And Seneca was killed the day I saw you all off after the seventy-fourth Games, and that was a year before any of this, and he wasn't involved _at all_, you know?"

He snorts, but there is no amusement to the sound. She watches him as he looks away and drinks. The frown that creases his brow is deeper than before, and new shadows veil his eyes. "You really don't know," he says, full of wonder, and takes another drink.

As the ice clinks in his glass, something clicks in her mind. "But you do."

His grip on his glass visibly tightens. He holds his breath against the liquor's sting for far longer than even she would. Finally, he looks up at her. "Remember that bracelet you gave me to wear before the Quell?"

"Yes." She had loved the way it had turned out, a golden bangle with delicate flame patterns engraved on it.

"Remember the Games? Right from the beginning," he prompts, but she can't call up the image to which he's referring. "I gave it to Finnick Odair for his token. I needed Katniss and Peeta to form an alliance with him. It'd be easier to get them all out if they were in the same place."

Her stomach twists as it suddenly comes to her, the sunlight glinting off the bangle around Finnick Odair's wrist, the alliance that neither Katniss nor Peeta had wanted at first, the brief eulogy for the brave victor from District Four in the weeks following the end of the rebellion.

"You gave me an opportunity," Haymitch says. "I _had_ to take it. It was too easy, and it was so unlike any of us that no one would be the wiser."

What little alcohol she has had tonight burns magma hot in her veins. Her body tenses, and when the world begins to spin, she grips the edge of the step on which they're seated. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He shakes his head. "I thought you'd be better off if you didn't know."

Her eyes go wide, and she sniffs, her gaze going out to the patch of grass where the geese had feasted on breadcrumbs. The silence presses down on her the way it did in her cell. The darkness before her gets deeper, more endless; she shuts her eyes against it and breathes.

"Effie-"

She snaps her head up to face him, eyes narrowed. "Do you know what they did to me?" Her voice is strong, sustained by physical pain and an endless, indescribable ache inside. He pulls back a bit, but he stares at her still. She barely sees him anymore, this moment now warring with the memories of then, anger and fear new and old keeping her just grounded enough to continue. "They ripped out my hair with their bare hands. They would ask me things, and I didn't know the answers, and they took fistfuls every time. When they got tired of that, they burnt the rest off with chemicals." She points to her cheek, to the spot he can't see in the dim lighting, beneath the precisely applied layers of foundation and powder. "This was the test spot. Just to see if it would burn deep enough, if I would scream loud enough.

"When it was all gone, they shocked me until I could barely breathe. They beat me until I thought every bone in my body was broken." She shuts her eyes tight, and her voice becomes ragged. "They _violated me_. Not for answers. Not for anything. Just because they _could_." She takes a shaky breath as tears fall from her eyes. Her voice is thin as she repeats, "Just because they could."

Digging her nails into her elbows, Effie breathes, telling herself that she is fine, she is safe, it's over now, and she is miles and miles from those men. She loses count of how many breaths it takes for her to regain control over her voice. It doesn't matter, in the end. Once the calm of safety starts to settle on her, it's irrelevant how it has come to her.

"And I didn't know why. I didn't understand. I thought Snow hated me, or… Maybe he did. I don't know. I don't care. I just wanted to die because it had to be better than a life like that." Shuddering, she pulls her feet up a step. A moment later, she meets Haymitch's gaze. "It would have been better if I'd known. Then at least I could have felt proud of having done something good for once."

"You did do something good," he offers quietly, the knowledge of how useless the words are evident on the whole of his face.

She shakes her head slowly, giving a mirthless chuckle. "I thought I deserved what happened. _All_ of it." She sniffs. "You did, too, didn't you? You still do."

"No," he protests firmly. "No one deserves that."

"Not even this Capitol princess?"

"That's not what you are. It isn't what you were. You were-" He stops, biting his lower lip as he struggles to find words amid the storm she sees in his eyes. "You were lots of things, but-" He sighs. "I don't know what to tell you. We thought it would be the best way. Obviously it wasn't."

"No, it wasn't." Brushing the tears off her cheeks, she stands. He does not follow suit.

At the foot of the stairs, she stops and turns to face him. "I would have loved to be a rebel, you know," she says, and though her tone is soft, it carries in the silence. "I would have loved to know that I was one."

Before she has time to regret saying so, she heads back to Peeta's house.

* * *

That night, she sleeps with the desk lamp on, her pillows piled high and her sheets wrapped tight about her. Slumber comes in short spells that do her more harm than good. By morning, she's clumsy and stiff, but she marches on, hanging back in a supporting role while the director and the rest go about their work.

In the evening, she makes herself some tea and heads to Katniss' house. Peeta is sitting on the front steps, sketching idly on a drawing pad.

"Is she home?" she asks him.

He glances down at his work and nods. "It's been a bad day, though," he says softly. "She's in bed, not saying a word."

"She doesn't have to," Effie says, giving a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I just want someone to sit and have some girl time with." He frowns, and she lifts up her mug of tea. "I won't spill, and I won't bother her. May I go up?"

He tilts his head for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't see how it can hurt."

She finds Katniss' bedroom with little trouble and steps inside. "It's only me, Katniss," she says gently as she shuts the door behind her. She sets her tea on the bedside table and manages to get the vanity chair from its proper place to a spot just a few feet from the bed where Katniss lies in a heap under the covers, motionless save for the rise and fall of her chest with every breath.

"Peeta tells me it hasn't been the best of days for you," Effie says, taking her tea again as she sits. "I won't be here long, I promise. I just… I haven't had a very good day, either, and the best thing I can think of for that is to be in the company of a few strong, intelligent women. And who better than you?"

She thinks on that for a moment as she sips her tea, thinks of Katniss' courage and spirit and heart. "I know you probably don't think of me as a friend, and that's fine. I understand. But I do hope I can be someone you trust. It's important to have people you can trust nearby, especially after everything that's happened." She can't keep the edge out of her voice, but it doesn't matter. Katniss doesn't react.

A few seconds of silence later, Effie sighs. "If you don't mind, I'd just like to sit here a little while longer. I'll stay quiet, really. It's just…" She stops, shakes her head. "It's nothing. I'll let you rest now."

Effie stays until the room gets dark and the last of her tea is cool on her tongue. At the door, she stops to look back at Katniss, who still hasn't moved from where she lies.

"Good night, Katniss," she says softly. "And thank you."


	10. Puzzle Pieces

Buttercup flicks his tail, tickling Katniss' nose, waking her from a dream of a field of ashes. She hears Rue's voice trail off, watches her as she stands on her toes and takes flight with a smile.

"It's okay," Katniss whispers, telling Buttercup Rue's words as she scratches the back of his neck. "It's going to be all right."

She stretches, her joints creaking from disuse, her muscles weak from lack of food and water. For a moment, it's like she's in the Seam again, and she finds herself planning her trip through the woods for the day's meal. It takes Buttercup digging his claws into the mattress for her to remember that those days are over.

"Stop destroying things," she tells the cat as she sits up. As if he understands, he desists, doing a stretch of his own and shaking out his head when he's done. "Cute," she remarks with a roll of her eyes.

It's late in the morning, the golden glow of sunrise still visible on the trees she sees through her window. She stands, taking slow steps to her drawers, breathing deeply as her body adjusts to being upright again. Showering helps; she scrubs the sweat of a full day in bed off her skin, feeling the weight of the shadow that immobilized her go with it.

In the hall, the smell of fresh bread and cake wakes her appetite. Buttercup has already gone to investigate, the imprint of his body on her pillow the only evidence of his having been here at all. Once she has braided her hair, she goes downstairs and finds Peeta at work in the kitchen, drizzling pale blue icing over a pan of cupcakes. He glances briefly at her as she walks in, smiling as if everything is all right, just like Rue told her.

"Did I miss lunch delivery day?" she asks, grabbing a pot from the cabinet under the sink.

"No, just one of the prep days for it." He nods at his work. "This is for us."

She glances at them as she starts some water boiling. "That's a lot of cupcakes. We can't finish those if it's all we eat today."

"We'll manage," he says with a shrug. "We have an extra neighbor now, if all else fails."

Katniss nods. "Do you want coffee, too?"

"Sure."

They work in silence until the brew is ready and this first layer of icing is done. The cheese-covered bread he has made them for breakfast is as good as it has ever been, yet it is somehow more savory to her. The end of her fast is sweet and pleasant, the peace around Peeta no doubt the reason she has recovered so swiftly at all.

* * *

"A lot happened yesterday, didn't it?"

Katniss does the dishes while Peeta sits, massaging his leg where it meets the prosthetic. He has said to her that sometimes he feels flickers of pain where his leg used to be, and that now all those stories of people who had lost limbs in the accident that took her father make sense to him.

It reminds her to be grateful that they are alive at all.

Sighing, he leans back in his seat. "I don't really know, actually. Why do you ask?"

"Because so much seems to happen when I'm out of it." Two days recovering from tracker jacker stings had resulted in several dead tributes during their first time in the arena, and days after their victory, she found out there had been a discussion about the state of her breasts for the victory interview.

Those are fair enough reasons for her to wonder now, she'd say.

"If it did, it wasn't here, and that's all I can say for sure," he tells her. "Except for Effie turning up in the evening."

"That's why I'm asking." She shuts the tap, grabs a towel, and begins to dry a glass. "She seemed upset." She thinks back to the conversation, to the subdued anger in Effie's voice.

Peeta nods. "She said something about girl time." He shrugs, looking wide-eyed at Katniss.

She nods, Effie's words coming to her easily. Her accent is less pronounced lately, the tones more even and relaxed, more natural. More like District Twelve.

"I think I might know why." Katniss avoids the question that is surely in Peeta's eyes. Last night, Effie had mentioned trust, had all but confessed that something had gone amiss with the confidence she had placed in someone. The last thing Katniss will do now is break the trust Effie has handed to her.

* * *

She hardly expects Haymitch to be awake at this hour, let alone coherent, but Katniss goes to his house anyway. The living room reeks of liquor and vomit, and the armchair lies on its side. The dining room is not much better: only a few of the chairs are where they should be, and the vase centerpiece has been turned over, its flowers a badly dried mess on the surface of the rich wood of the table.

Haymitch sits in one of the chairs at the table, his head on his arms, a nearly empty bottle by his hand. Wrinkling her nose, Katniss approaches. She knows better than to try shoving him awake when he's in this state, but she goes for it anyway, nudging him hard in the shoulder with her fist. When he doesn't stir, she tries again.

Nothing.

"You asked for this," she mutters as she goes into the kitchen. She fills a saucepan with water and goes back, standing on the other side of the table from him as she calculates the angle for her shot. Finally, she splashes the water onto him and ducks just in time to avoid becoming the target of his cursing. His knife, at least, is too far away to do any damage, and she figures he won't risk losing it. She wouldn't, after all.

"I thought you'd stopped drinking this much," she says once he's reduced to heavy, angry breathing.

"Katniss," he all but spits. She stands then, catches him wiping water off his brow and out of his eyes. "Why do I even bother being surprised anymore."

"You need a shower," she tells him.

"Yeah, thanks to you. What is it with people throwing food and drink at me lately?"

"Only when you deserve it."

He sighs and sets down his knife. "I fail to see how me sleeping somehow warrants you barging into my house and pouring water all over me."

Shrugging, she crosses her arms. "What was it this time, Haymitch?"

He pulls off his over shirt and wrings it out. "Monsters under my bed."

"I'm talking about Effie."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"So you did do something."

"Did she send you over here?"

"I came here on a hunch." Katniss lowers her arms, her hands loose fists at her sides. She has an escape plan ready, but she won't back down yet. "I thought you'd decided to stop being a jerk to her."

He stops just moments before shaking out his shirt, fixing a cold glare on her. In the split second before he speaks, she sees a deep, familiar pain in his eyes. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Inhaling deeply, she watches him, waiting for more, but he is silent. "She was upset about _something_, I know that much."

"And it's automatically my fault if she's crying over a broken nail?"

"You're the one she spends the most time with outside of filming."

"You know what? Let's talk about you instead," he says, hanging his shirt on the back of the chair he'd been sleeping in. "How was your day yesterday? I notice you spent it holed up in your house. Is that my fault, too?"

She balls up her hands tighter, wishing she had something to throw at him.

"No answer? Damn shame." He shakes his head. "Here I was hoping Peeta'd come throw something at me next."

Pressing her lips together, she forces herself to relax her hands. The fight has left his eyes, but not the shell, the wall he's built to keep people out and memories in.

"Go ask her if you want to know," he says after a few seconds, grabbing the bottle on the table. "It may be my fault, but it's not my story to tell."

She frowns. "But-"

"_Out_. Unless you have alcohol."

She turns, rolling her eyes. "Take a shower," she tells him, and marches off.

Peeta asks her no questions when she returns, merely hands her a bag of chopped almonds for her to sprinkle over a tray of braided dough he has left to rise all morning.

At around noon, she looks out the window in time to spot the bright blue of Effie's wig. Haymitch's advice rings in her mind, and Katniss decides he's right.

She tells Peeta where she's going and heads to his house in search of answers.


	11. Just the Thing

Another sleepless night leaves Effie feeling even worse, but she manages to put in half a day's work regardless. At lunch, she excuses herself, heads to her room in Peeta's house and crawls into bed fully clothed, too tired to care about the wrinkles this will cause.

Half an hour later, there's a knock on her door. Effie sits up in bed, pulling the blankets about her shoulders, and says, "Come in."

"Hi," Katniss says, her footsteps silent as she crosses the room.

"Hello, Katniss." Effie watches her get settled on the floor.

"I saw you come home early," Katniss says. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not." Effie gives her a small but sincere smile. "Come sit up here, if you like."

Katniss shakes her head. "I have cat hair all over my pants." As if to make sure, she checks her shirt and sleeves. Nodding, she turns to Effie again. "About yesterday-"

"I'm sorry if I was a bother."

"You weren't. I meant to say thank you, actually." Katniss shifts, shrugging. "I think it must be hard for Peeta sometimes, how I can get. I think your being there gave him a break for once."

"I doubt he sees it that way," Effie says. "I doubt he minds at all."

"Still."

She falls silent for a while, and Effie watches her, glad to see her out and about, even if she's keeping to one person in a neighboring house.

"I heard what you were saying," Katniss continues a bit later. "I just couldn't… anything."

Effie nods. "It's all right. It was nice just to sit with you."

"So… did something happen?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Since you got back, you've been going over to Haymitch's after working, but not yesterday."

"Very astute," Effie remarks with a wry grin. "To put it simply, I didn't feel up to talking with him yesterday. He didn't do anything, really, I just… I needed a break."

"Sorry I wasn't all there."

"Katniss, no, it was nothing." Effie looks around the room, not sure what she's seeking. Her eyes fall on her glass of water. "I brought some hot chocolate mix with me. Would you like some?"

Katniss gives her a wan smile. "Sure."

A few minutes later, they sit in the living room with steaming mugs. Katniss takes a sip and shuts her eyes, savoring it. Effie smiles, the memory of the first time she saw Katniss try it coming to her in crisp detail.

"The supply train came in today, I noticed," Effie remarks. "One of my camera operators nearly fell over himself on his way to buy carrots."

Katniss nods, licking her lips. She holds Effie's gaze a moment, then says, "Haymitch did something, didn't he."

Sighing, Effie shrugs. "I suppose you could say so."

Katniss nods, squinting as she zeroes in on something only she can see. "He lied to me for most of the first year I knew him."

"It seems he has a gift for that."

"Yeah. I hated him for it." She takes a long sip of hot chocolate. "I felt used, like I was just some piece in a game."

Effie grimaces, remembering all too well that for Snow, Katniss had been just that. Well, for her first Games, at any rate. For her second, she must have been more like a pest that needed to be done away with at once.

Shrugging, Katniss says, "It all worked out in the end, but I still don't like it. I understand, but… still."

"Yes," Effie agrees, staring into her mug. "Still."

That is, perhaps, the most difficult thing to process: that Haymitch had acted as he thought best, and that it had, in fact, resulted in the outcome he and the other rebels had desired. More than that, she had survived where others hadn't. Part of that had to have been because she did not give the Peacekeepers the answers they were after. If he had told her even the slightest amount of the truth, would she be here right now? Would she have told the Peacekeepers after that first, endless day? Would she have been a proper rebel and dared to take the truth to the grave?

"He means well, though," Katniss tells her, drawing her out of the fog of _what if_. She continues when Effie meets her gaze. "That's how I came to forgive him. He always meant the best, even if it didn't turn out that way. He always cared."

"It's just difficult," Effie says softly.

"I know. But it'll be okay."

Effie nods. "You know, this is very strange. If anything, I should be the one making you feel better."

"I think, after everything, that we all have to help one another." Katniss looks out the window, at the blooming flowers in front of her house. "Prim would think so, too."

They finish their chocolate in silence. Effie tries to give her some of the powdered version to take home, but Katniss refuses.

"It won't be the same if I have it without you," she says with a shrug and a slight smile.

Before Katniss goes home, Effie kisses her cheek. They are, she notes, roughly the same height now that she has taken to wearing flats.

"You were right," Katniss says as she makes her way outside. "Sometimes another woman's company is just the thing."

* * *

It rains the next day, so Effie spends much of her time reviewing notes with the film crew in their base camp. She goes with one cameraman over to where the ruins of the Justice Building lie, holding tight to her umbrella while she peers at the rubble from all around and the cameraman gets his shots. The rain lets up in time to let them catch a few golden rays of sunlight falling on the brick and stone.

Before heading Peeta's house to what will surely be another sleepless night, she makes a stop at the house where the couple expecting a child live. She learns their names are Heather and Robert Marsh, and that they made the shoes she is wearing.

"I have to get going, but I was hoping I could speak with you tomorrow for a bit longer," Effie tells them. "I think your story is just the thing that this new Panem needs to hear. I don't mean to trivialize it," she adds quickly, "and I don't think it would be appropriate to film every moment of every day until you go into labor, but… well, that's why I'd like to talk it over with you. If you wouldn't mind."

Heather and Robert look at one another. He shrugs, and she says to Effie, "It certainly won't hurt to talk, will it?"

"Not at all," Effie assures them. "And you can tell me to leave as soon as you get tired of me." Even though she's being careful, she can't help a bright grin. This is the lightest she's felt in days. "I'll be here first thing tomorrow!"

When she gets back to Peeta's house, she is exhausted enough to remember to take off her muddy shoes only once she's taken a few steps inside. She finds the energy to clean up, but not enough to head upstairs to change just yet, so she sets about making some tea.

She's pouring boiling water over the tea bag in her mug when she hears someone walk in through the back door. Setting the pot down on the stove, she turns in the direction of the footsteps, expecting Peeta with a baked treat or Katniss with an empty mug.

Instead she finds Haymitch clutching a half-empty bottle of white liquor by the neck.

He keeps his gaze on the counter as he shuffles over, leaning against it once he's near enough. Clearing his throat, he meets her gaze.

"The supply train treated you well, I see," Effie remarks, neutral but not icy. It's strange how familiar this feels. This used to be their normal, this hesitant coolness, these reluctant conversations.

"Thought you might like the company," he says, no pretenses, no lies. It is just like before.

She picks up her mug, gripping it tightly. "I have company. I have an entire film crew with me this time."

"_Real_ company."

"I have Katniss and Peeta not too far away."

He tilts his head sideways, half a grin tugging at his mouth. "Those two won't ever come bearing such good gifts."

She eyes the bottle in his hand, then meets his gaze head on. "You're the one who likes to drink, Haymitch."

He shrugs and sets the bottle on the countertop. "Don't hear you refusing."

Rolling her eyes, she grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with ice. She takes the bottle, pours liquor into the glass, and sets it down in front of him. He snorts, cracking that half smile again, and knocks back the drink. Some of it drips down his chin; he wipes it away with his sleeve. She wrinkles her nose at the sight.

They stand in silence for a moment, Effie with her tea, Haymitch with his bottle, before finally he takes a slow, deep breath and turns his head to look out the window.

"We had to sedate you when we found you," he says, eyes fixed on something outside. "We had to get you to a hospital. You were weak, light as a feather, but you tried to fight us off anyway."

He pauses, and she can almost see what he's seeing. She doesn't remember being rescued, but she can imagine it, picture herself lashing out with what little strength she had at the men in uniforms barging into her cell, looming tall and imposing before her, a familiar sight made worse by their numbers.

"Took a while for the doctors to get you stabilized, but they did it. A few days after that, they took you in for surgery."

"Plutarch said there were three in all," she supplies quietly.

He nods. "About that time, Katniss woke up from her own procedures after the whole thing with the parachute bombs. She needed me a hell of a lot more than you did, so I went to be there for her. That's why you didn't see me for so long after you made it through it all. That, and…" He takes a breath, holds it for a moment. "I couldn't face you."

"Because of the bracelet."

"Right." Slowly, he meets her gaze. His is surprisingly steady despite his drunkenness. "Satisfied?"

She shakes her head. "Guilt on top of guilt doesn't beget satisfaction."

He laughs, not an ounce of mirth in him, and turns to go.

"Wait."

He is halfway to the door already when he stops. She waits until the silence gets to him, makes him at least look over his shoulder at her, taking the time to think on just what she wants to say and why she stopped him in the first place.

"I-" She presses her lips together a moment, takes a breath. "I don't sleep as well if I haven't talked with you. I don't know why, but I don't."

He nods slowly. "You've been sleeping with the light on," he says.

"You haven't been sleeping at all," she guesses.

He arches his eyebrows and nods. "True enough."

She remembers every year of Games they attended, how he never seemed to sleep, only pass out from too much alcohol; she remembers his off-handed remark about one of his best sober nights involving stabbing a table. Her own sleepless nights are likely nothing next to his, yet they are just as bad for her, just as real.

"Stay a while." When he meets her gaze, she adds, "Until we both feel tired enough to sleep."

"I'm already part of the way there," he says, lifting his bottle.

"That's fine. I just-" She catches herself, hides behind her mug and a frown. "I just need the company."

She leads him into the living room, her heart pounding, the words she almost said echoing in her head all the way there.


	12. Full Speed Ahead

Effie wakes with a start. There is sunlight on her face, but she is not in her bed, and this is not her room. She pulls the blanket tight about herself, counting as she breathes. It takes her a few seconds, but she places the space: the living room in Peeta's house, the soft couch against the far wall.

Sitting up, she feels a sleeve of her dress get pulled off her shoulder as the blanket shifts with her. She frowns, looking down: she is still wearing yesterday's dress. A hand to her head tells her she's wearing her wig as well. On the coffee table in front of her is her favorite mug, and snoring in the armchair off to the left is none other than Haymitch.

Memories of the previous evening come back to her, from his drunken intrusion to her request for him to stay. The last thing she remembers is telling him she's going to speak with the Marshes today. Now here they are, both in need of a shower and a change of clothes.

Feeling rested for the first time in days, she stands and goes to the armchair. Not once in all the years she's known him has she ever seen him look so relaxed, his hold loose on the glass from which he drank last night, his dark hair in his face. She takes the glass and sets it on the table, smiling. The air isn't cold, but she shrugs off the blanket and drapes it over him anyway, a silent show of gratitude for his having done the same for her last night, for not having left her to wake here alone and wonder at what happened.

She makes quick work of showering and dressing. Haymitch is still asleep when she comes downstairs again. In the kitchen, she makes twice as much coffee and leaves him a full mug on the table before she goes.

The air outside is muggy with the humidity left over from the day before, but the sun shines bright and unobstructed. The weather lifts everyone's spirits, but it's more than that for Effie. She smiles because of a good night's sleep, a friendship beginning to mend, and a story that will bring the pieces of this documentary together.

Robert Marsh greets her at the door and leads her into the modest living room, where Heather sits in an armchair with her legs propped up on a footstool.

"No cameras?" she asks as Effie takes a seat on the couch.

"Of course not," Effie says. She lifts her clipboard and pencil. "Only these for today. No cameras until and unless you've agreed to them."

Heather nods slowly, smiling. "I have to admit, I never thought I'd hear those words from- well, from anyone."

"I never thought I'd get to say them," Effie confesses.

Robert excuses himself to go work in a back of the house. "His workshop is there," Heather tells Effie. "It's much nicer now."

Nodding, Effie makes a note on the top sheet on her clipboard. "So, even if you would rather not be filmed, I'd still like to interview you and have some elements of your story mentioned. You'll get to approve everything, of course."

"Oh, we've got nothing to hide. It should be all right."

Effie grins. "All right. Let's see." She purses her lips as she looks over the questions she'd written the day before, after Katniss' visit. "Well, let's just dive in, I suppose. How was it, finding out about the baby in the middle of the rebellion?"

"Terrifying." Heather bites her lip for a moment, her eye glazing over with the memory. "We were refugees, obviously new, trying to adjust to Thirteen. It was safe, but… different. I didn't like it. I missed the woods, the streets, the sky. I was scared to think our child might be born there, might have to grow up there."

"I can't even imagine," Effie says, jotting things down and thanking one particular professor for her short course in shorthand. "But I have to ask, doesn't it worry you that there isn't a hospital here?"

"Not at all," answers Heather. "It was great having doctors and equipment in Thirteen, yes. I'm glad for that, and I'm glad we get to know we're having a girl. But women have been giving birth here without fancy equipment for years. There's a midwife, a woman named Yasmin, who lives two buildings over. She's our acting medic, so she got to move in and set up before anyone else did."

"How long has she been practicing?" Effie asks. It's an unscripted question, but she is curious. She vaguely remembers reading about midwives in school, but they were treated as a quaint occupation of the past, a class of people who practiced a primitive art.

"She was an apprentice when I was little, so she's been working at it since at least then. Twenty-five, maybe thirty years, I'd guess."

"So she must be very good at what she does."

"She's excellent. Best in the Seam." Heather is proud as she says it, her grey eyes lighting up, lending her smile a subtle brightness that could clear the darkest of moods.

Effie gets clarification on what the Seam is, taking diligent notes in case they're needed. There is so much no one outside this district knew about its way of life, but the past is not the focus of her project. It's the present, the hope that burns bright through the rebuilding effort, and the future towards which they are working. Perhaps someday, when the wounds of the Hunger Games have begun to heal, people will need to remember the history of their country, that they may never repeat it again.

Soon, it feels less like an interview and more like a conversation. Effie learns which leaves make a tea that reduces fevers better than the medicines she's known her whole life, which flower's petals sweeten even the blandest of grain cereals, and how to dry any number of plants for use in the winter months. The only thing she can give Heather in return is to show her how to make a dress out of a blanket. It was a game she and her cousins played when they were in their early teens pretending to walk down the most prestigious of runways in the Capitol. With just a few pins and the right layering, they could have gone out in public without fear of ridicule if their parents had only allowed them to try.

"It looks comfortable, actually," Heather remarks as Effie folds the blanket with which she's just done her demonstration. "Lots of freedom to move."

"And it's very cool in hot weather." Effie sits but does not take up her clipboard. "Well, we covered everything I had in mind and so much more. You can take your time with your decision. Probably the director will ask you similar questions, just so they'll be able to record the answers.

"I do have one more, though. Completely off the record."

Heather chuckles, nodding. "Go on ahead."

"Do you know what you'll name your daughter?"

Heather draws in a deep breath and presses her lips together. For a moment, Effie wonders if she's crossed a line, but there is no anger in Heather's face or eyes as she sinks into her thoughts.

"You know, we have a few ideas," Heather begins slowly, "but we still aren't sure. It's important, picking a good name."

Effie nods. "It's not the same thing, but we still haven't picked out a name for the documentary," she says. "I can't seem to come up with anything that isn't- well, awful or trite."

"Yes. We could choose to name her Hope, but that's… well, we don't like it."

"It's pretty, though."

"I think it would put pressure on her to be hope, or to have it." Heather shakes her head. "That's a lot to put on someone's shoulders. I don't know how Katniss managed all she did."

"Neither do I," Effie says quietly. "But then again, I don't know how anyone managed all that happened."

"No one really knows what they can withstand until the time comes to withstand it," Heather says. "My father used to tell me that."

"He was very wise."

Effie remains silent for a while in honor of that man and the countless many others who died in the years since the Dark Days. Then, with a deep breath and a smile, she says good-bye and heads on her way.

"I'll be in town every day, so you can let me know your decision any time this week," Effie says at the door.

"Oh, no need," Heather tells her, waving a hand in the air. "A few hours for a camera won't be so bad, I think."

It takes all the strength Effie possesses not to jump and squeal, but she does permit herself a bright, beaming grin.

For the rest of the day, she is nothing short of ecstatic.

That evening, she is back to merely pleased with a dash of content. Even Haymitch's sarcasm doesn't get her down.

"To your little project thing," he says, lifting up the bottle in his hand and taking a drink.

She does the same with her tea. "To District Twelve."


	13. Ghosts

Katniss skips this week's trip into town. It isn't a good day for hunting, either, not with the threat of rain hanging overhead. Early summer storms come in sudden and heavy, often with lightning and gusty winds. Though she itches for the feeling of her bow in her hand, the woods all around her, and the silence both bring, she stays in, the slight risk of a fire deterrent enough.

With Peeta in town, Buttercup lounges by the window while Katniss works on the memory book. She finishes a sentence, carefully going over the letters again in ink, when the phone rings. There are a few people it could be, but as she picks up, she narrows down that very short mental list.

Her guess is right, though she will admit, she hadn't expected the rush of fear in Effie's voice.

"Katniss? I thought you'd be out. Well, either way, could- could you come over quickly? With your cat, if you can."

"Sure. Is everything all right?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

Effie hangs up without a good-bye, so Katniss knows to waste no time. She lifts Buttercup from the windowsill, cradling him in one arm, and heads to Peeta's house.

The door opens just as Katniss reaches for the knob, and Effie peeks her head out from behind it, waving her inside.

"Oh, good, you brought him," Effie says as she shuts the door.

"Yeah." Katniss frowns. The situation is still a mystery, but the scarf wrapped around Effie's head piques her curiosity more than whatever mission she has been asked here to complete. She holds her questions, though; Effie looks too upset to bear inquiries into her choice of hair piece for the day. "So, what's going on?"

"There's a mouse," Effie whispers, as if someone will overhear. "I've been cleaning up a bit, you see; today is the documentary team's scheduled day off. I made some phone calls this morning and thought, well, I'm not doing anything important besides that, so I should tidy up, you know, in thanks to Peeta for letting me stay here. But then when I came down here, something skittered over my feet, and I just-" She takes a breath, placing a hand over her heart. "Well, I'm lucky the phone is downstairs. Otherwise I might still be on the counter."

Katniss snorts, trying her best to suppress a laugh. She sets Buttercup on the floor and nudges him with her foot. "Go, you have prey in here somewhere," she says to him. But all Buttercup does is stare at her and flick his tail. "_Go_." Buttercup waits a bit, as if to spite her, then goes off to stalk about the kitchen. Shrugging, Katniss turns to look at Effie. "I can't promise he'll find anything, but he's here."

"And so are you," Effie says, sighing. "At least now I won't be alone if I see it again." She shakes her head, tucking a loose corner of her scarf into knot at the top of her head. "Would you mind staying, actually? I prepared some iced tea."

Katniss figures Effie won't let her go until Buttercup returns victorious from his hunt or they see the mouse run out of the house. Either way, it'll be a while, so she accepts a glass of tea and follows Effie into the living room.

"I thought you'd take the same day off as the builders," Katniss remarks, taking a sip of her drink. "This is _really_ good, by the way."

Effie beams, folding her hands together on her lap. "Well, Plutarch and I discussed it before I came here with the crew, and we thought it might be nice to have a work day on everyone else's day off. That way we can get footage of what they do outside of rebuilding."

"Makes sense."

Nodding, Effie goes on, "There will always be someone on duty, more or less. Quintus, the director, says it's always possible for something major to happen when no one is ready, so he's trying to avoid missing out on anything important. But really, I don't think we'll run into that."

Short of something caving in or being struck by lightning, Katniss can't think of much that could go wrong during the summer. "It's pretty quiet here this time of year. Well-" She presses her lips together, years of reaping days flashing before her eyes in rapid succession. "It would've been."

Effie nods, a thin line appearing between her powdered eyebrows; she is thinking of those days, too. "I mentioned that to Oliver, one of the builders. He said they were thinking they would just ignore it. Old reaping day, that is."

"My father told me once that long ago, before the Dark Days, back even to before all the floods and the rest, there were people who used to honor the summer solstice as a holiday." It had been the day after a reaping, a muggy, sunny morning, and her father had taken her to the lake for a swim while he checked the traps he'd set nearby. The story had come with a few lines of song about a king and a queen and a time of joy. Katniss still holds those notes close, flickering firelight to focus on when the darkness feels like too much to bear.

"I've read about that before," Effie tells her. "Even though the reaping didn't fall on midsummer, we were encouraged to think that it and the Games were our own sort of seasonal celebration." She shrugs, trying to make light of it, but Katniss sees the shadow that crosses her face, the guilt she will live with forever.

They all bear scars from those days, those long and terrible years.

"I don't think it would be appropriate to bring up old traditions such as that, though," Effie says, shaking her head. "I've done enough."

"Right." Katniss nods, staring into the ice in her glass as reaping day after reaping day comes to mind. She remembers the dread most of all, the way she felt she might get sick even with an empty stomach in the days before the reaping. It comes back now, familiar and hot, and she has to set the glass down on the coffee table to push the feeling away.

It isn't enough. She needs a complete change of subject. She glances at Effie, who is lost in her own thoughts, and whose floral scarf is as neatly tied as it was when Katniss got here. "No wig today?"

"Hm? Oh, no." Effie smiles, shaking her head. "I wasn't planning on seeing anyone today, so there was no point. Well, not until that mouse came along and I had to call someone. I only just had time to put something on my face before you arrived."

Katniss doesn't bother suppressing a wry grin. "Have you been wearing that all day?"

"That I have been. This was a huge trend when my mother was a teenager, you know. She taught me how to wrap my hair in case it ever came back, but it never did."

"It's interesting," Katniss says. She isn't sure if it's more or less strange than wearing wigs.

"The fabric lets my scalp breathe," Effie continues, adjusting the edge of the wrapping at the back of her neck. "And even wigs need a day to rest."

"I don't know how you manage to wear one in this weather."

Effie shrugs. "I'm used to it." Her gaze shifts to one side for a moment, and she frowns slightly, pressing her lips together. Katniss watches, the hesitation making her eager to hear whatever it is Effie is thinking about.

When Effie snaps out of it with a shake of her head, Katniss forces herself not to look disappointed.

A clatter in the kitchen cuts off both their thoughts. Katniss stands and goes to investigate, and Effie follows. On the other side of the counter is Buttercup, who is cowering, his eyes fixed on a tin cup that lies not a few feet from him.

"Oh, you sure are a hero," Katniss says, rolling her eyes. "Stupid cat." She picks up the cup and sets it in the sink. Buttercup stays in place. "Go on!" she tells him. "We're not leaving until you find something."

"I don't blame him for being scared," Effie says, wrinkling her nose. "It was a big mouse."

Katniss shakes her head. "Maybe it's in the basement. Come on, big hero, let's go." She grabs Buttercup none too gently and drops him off in the basement, leaving the door open for him.

"I'm sorry I made you come over," Effie says.

"Don't worry about it. I needed a day off, too."

"Why don't I make us something to eat?"

"You cook?" The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Sorry. I didn't-"

"I manage," Effie corrects, chuckling. "It won't be long."

It's no lamb stew, but the simple potato and mushroom soup is good, especially with spices from the little bottle Effie brought with her from home.

"I really can't live without this blend," she says, sprinkling a bit more into her bowl. "I got the rest of the ingredients here, and I must say, they are _excellent_."

"Greasy Sae used to make the most amazing soups out of anything," Katniss remarks.

"It's a gift," Effie says almost solemnly. "One I sadly do not possess."

"You got more of it than I did." Katniss can only repeat what she has been taught. Written recipes don't turn out so badly, but it's always better if she assists first. Maybe if she gets this one from Effie, she'll be able to make it later on.

A crash issues from the basement, but Katniss doesn't move to go look into it. "I'm not going anywhere until Buttercup comes up here with a dead mouse in his mouth."

"Fine by me," Effie says, shuddering. "I don't want to go down there."

The basement, with its windows and proximity to the surface, doesn't bother Katniss in the least. But when she thinks of it the way Effie does, dark and hidden, strong enough to pull her back to those places, those days beneath the ground-

"Katniss, do you believe in ghosts?"

Inhaling deeply, Katniss grounds herself in this room, in the smell of lunch, in the heat of the day as it creeps inside the house. "Sort of," she answers. "Do you?"

"Yes. Well-" Effie presses her lips together, reconsidering. "There are some people who've died who I can't- it's like they're here. Sometimes I swear I see them in the mirror, or feel them just standing next to me, and I think- well, it feels so real."

"Yeah," Katniss says quietly. "My sister-" She stops herself, shakes her head. "Especially when I go into town." There, she sees the buildings as they used to be, sees familiar faces, hears the old melody of work and subdued sorrow. "Dr. Aurelius says that's normal."

"So does Dr. Hesiod. He says it gets easier with time."

Katniss shakes her head. "I keep hoping so." But even as she says so, she knows that it has gotten better, that Peeta has helped her so much. Even Haymitch has helped, in his own way. And now, Effie has, too, with her relentless dedication to her work, and with such simple things as this soup, this tea, this conversation.

Down in the basement, a chase ensues; they hear Buttercup run from one end to the other, knocking down cans and boxes for much of the way. Finally, when all is silent, Katniss stands. "I'd better go make sure he's all right."

A few minutes later, she tosses the dead mouse in the trash. Buttercup peers into the can as if to make sure the rodent is, in fact, dead.

"I don't have anything to give him but my thanks," Effie laments, shaking her head.

"He'll be fine," Katniss says. "I'll feed him when we get home, and he'll probably forget all about it."

"I hope not. I'd love to be in his good graces in case another one turns up."

Katniss laughs and picks up Buttercup. "You are ugly as hell," she tells him, "but you're a hero."

Effie scratches him between the ears, and though he doesn't purr, he doesn't swat at her, either. That's a step up from the hatred he used to show everyone he hadn't known for at least a year.

"I don't want to forget them," Katniss says suddenly. Effie frowns, and Katniss clarifies, "The ghosts. The people who are still with us. Not the ones that matter, you know?"

"Yes," Effie answers, nodding slowly. "There are some I could certainly live without, but-" She pauses, seeing one of them, no doubt, or maybe all of them. "Many of them were important to me."

Katniss nods.

When she gets home, the book is waiting for her on the table, open to the page she had been working on before the phone call.

There are her ghosts, turning into benevolent spirits. There, they are honored.

There, she can find the beginnings of peace.


	14. The Glittering Capitol, Pt 2

**TRIGGER WARNING:** dubious consent.

* * *

_Year of the 75th Hunger Games_

Effie attends Seneca's funeral in black and grey, stylish enough that the media spend several long minutes following her through the procession, but subdued enough that they ignore her once they've moved on. They capture the ceremony from start to finish, leaving only when Mrs. Crane begins to weep in earnest and Mr. Crane demands they give them their privacy.

Even Effie leaves at that, glad for the excuse to stand by herself and breathe properly for the first time in hours. The fresh grave is still within view of the tree under which she stands, but far enough away that it is less immediate, almost less real.

She hears footsteps approaching, but she does not turn to see who it is. Possibly it is Seneca's sister, a nice young woman who works in the national archives, coming to stand in silence with someone who had been nearly family.

But it is, she realizes when she recognizes the voice, the last person she wants to see or speak with.

"It's such a terrible loss, isn't it," President Snow says as he comes to stand beside her.

She is not afraid to answer him, because the truth is, for once, exactly what he wants to hear. "Yes, it is."

"Such a talent," he continues, shaking his head. "I never would have imagined he was so deeply troubled. Tell me, did he ever seem that way to you? Did he ever say anything that might have indicated it would end this way?"

No one is near enough to hear them, but her stomach clenches regardless. This is a test, one she must pass. If she fails, the price to pay will be far higher than the time before.

"No," she answers, and her voice cracks of its own accord. She would be proud if she weren't so sad. "He seemed perfectly fine. If he felt so lost, he never said anything, at least not to me." She is caught up in playing along, but her rage against the lie of it burns bright, just for a moment. She fights it back, smothers it with her act. She will pass with flying colors. "Maybe if I had paid more attention, I could've-"

"You mustn't think that way, Miss Trinket," he tells her, and the affected concern in his tone tells her she has done as she should by him. She is safe for now. "You played no part in this, and I'm certain he would tell you the same if he could."

She stifles a sob, equal parts anger and grief, with a white handkerchief, one that belonged to the deceased and that she never got to return. And maybe that is what pushes her to speak the truth, to ask the questions she shouldn't of the only person here who has the answers.

"It's because of Katniss and Peeta, isn't it? Because he didn't kill one of them." She shakes her head, continuing just as softly, "I told him not to do us any favors. District Twelve was going to win either way. That was what I had hoped for, you know, just to have a victor, just once. He could've sent in a mutt, or a flood, or-"

"It was his pride that did this to him," Snow answers, serene, satisfied with his decision. "He forgot the purpose of the Games and focused instead on seeking glory in the execution of them, in making this year's ceremonies especially memorable so that he would go down in history as the one who made them possible." He shakes his head, and Effie almost believes that he had cared at all about the man he killed. "I suspect he would not have heard your advice even if you could have given it to him.

"I am glad, however, that you remember why we do this, why we hold these pageants every year."

"I will always remember," she says, and every ounce of conviction in her voice has nothing to do with the Games. What she will remember is that she must play her part or suffer the same fate.

* * *

_Year of the 74th Hunger Games_

"You're bleeding," Effie says, the smile she greets him with disappearing in the frown that takes hold of her face.

Seneca tries to hide it; likely he succeeded in public, but she knows him too well. When she reaches for his hand, he does not resist, but he is tense regardless.

"It's nothing," he says. "I've had worse."

"It's something," she insists, shaking her head. It's a clean cut along his palm, and the bleeding seems to have stopped, but it needs care. "Go sit down, I'll get some things to clean it up."

She retrieves some supplies from her bathroom, wasting no time once she's by his side. She is generous with the rubbing alcohol on the cotton, but to his credit, he does little more than wince.

"Hell of an argument," he remarks once she's patted the excess alcohol off with a fresh cotton ball.

"You don't get into fights like this," she says, smearing ointment on a cotton swab. "You generally don't get into fights at all."

He shrugs. "Yes, well, some people will take anything as a personal offense."

"Then you walk away," she insists, dabbing ointment on the cut. "Honestly, you know better." But he also runs in social circles of men just like him, men who know that there are far better ways to handle disagreements than with fists and knives.

Chuckling mirthlessly, he shakes his head. "It isn't enough, being Head Gamemaker." He is quiet for a moment, watching her work. Then he adds, "Nothing has ever been enough."

She exhales slowly, nodding. "I don't think anything will ever be enough for your father. Or for mine, for that matter. Still…" She sets aside the cotton swab and stares at the now clean cut.

"I've had worse," he repeats. "Having to pay for things with blood is nothing. When I was very young, he'd threaten to send me to the Hunger Games."

"Goodness," she gasps. "You can't have been so bad as to merit that."

"He used to think so. He still does. Any act of disobedience is an act of rebellion against him. So he would say he would have me thrown into the arena to fight with all those other kids." He smiles at the memory, though it is tinged with a hurt that time has not yet healed. "I used to tell him I'd win. The first and only Capitol victor."

"Surely your childish misbehavior didn't deserve punishment suited for real traitors." But even as she says it, she has to wonder why generation after generation in the districts is punished for their grandparents' and great-grandparents' transgressions. Yes, it keeps them from rebelling again, but there must be another way.

She shakes her head and reaches for gauze to dress his wound. She knows better than to voice those thoughts.

"My father says I should quit," she tells him, wrapping a gauzy bandage about his hand. "He says it's not worth it anymore if I'm not promoted by the Quarter Quell. I tell him that it doesn't really work that way, but ever since I mentioned that Hesperia got assigned to Ten right away, he won't let it go."

"What would you do if you weren't an escort?"

"I don't know. I could do a lot of things with all this experience, but it wouldn't be the same. Besides, I like District Twelve. That is, I love giving them the chance to shine, the chance to bring their district honor and glory, you know?" She pulls the gauze a bit too tight, and he winces. "Sorry," she mumbles, reaching for the tape. "I should be more careful." She cannot afford to make even a single mistake.

She sets the remaining tape on the table, breathes deeply, and takes his injured hand in both of hers.

"Poor us," she says softly, giving a half-hearted smile, "leading these glamorous lives that our respective parents simply do not understand."

He catches one of her neon green curls with his free hand, twists it about his fingers. "No one ever really outgrows their parents, do they?" He doesn't bother with a smile. She doesn't blame him.

"No, I don't think so."

He slides his arm about her and pulls her close, and she leans against him. Neither seeks any more than this. It is hardly the best time, not when they are both battling memories they will never defeat.

For a moment, Effie forgets how this came to be and takes comfort in Seneca's warmth and quiet strength.

* * *

_Year of the 73rd Hunger Games_

She does not want to see him. She is ready, and she is on her way to meet him outside, but the last thing Effie wants is to see Seneca Crane.

Her mother was positively ecstatic when she heard, thanking goodness itself for the stroke of luck. Her daughter, _her daughter_ and a Gamemaker - the Head Gamemaker, no less - why, it was a dream come true.

"I couldn't have arranged this better myself!" she had exclaimed, fussing over a flower pin for Effie's wig.

"It's only a date, Mother," Effie says, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, and that's how these things begin, dear."

Even now, with Seneca mid-bow as he kisses her hand, Effie wants to go back and tell her mother that this particular match did not begin the way she thinks. Maybe if it had, Effie would be walking on air, and every compliment he offers her would make her feel like a schoolgirl on her first night out with the star pupil in her year.

"You look like you're wearing stars," he tells her as he straightens, and she turns her face away.

To him, it is a show of diffidence, but to her, it is the only escape she has. The dark blue dominating her dress and hair, the sparkling silver of her jewelry and accessories, and the shooting star eyelashes make up one of her favorite outfits, one that never fails to draw admirers. But she does not want his praise. She hates this game because she cannot opt out of it, and she hates him because he is exactly the sort of man she would like to get to know in better circumstances.

It's that attraction she forces herself to think of later, when she sheds the night sky, so that he will not see the tears that dampen the shooting stars after every kiss.

* * *

The first time he gives her something - a bracelet with purple moon charms - it takes every ounce of her self-control not to throw it out when she goes home. It would be easy to get away with, too, to say she lost it at a party or a banquet, but she knows that President Snow is watching, so she keeps it safe and wears it every day, outfit permitting.

In return, she gives him the only thing she can: her undivided attention when they are together. That, at least, is easy. She asks him questions about his childhood, his hopes, his fears, all these things she might have saved for later if she weren't so desperate to find reasons to trust him.

Finally, at the end of the first month, she gets one that she cannot put a name to. He deviates from the normal course of action, leading her to the balcony of his penthouse instead of his bedroom. There, they talk of constellations and dreams, and he tells her that they are all made of stars, and that one day they will be among them again.

"There's a particular beauty in the quietness of the stars," he says, staring at the ones they can see through the light pollution of their city. "It's untouchable, and the only time I've seen anything like it is when night falls."

"You can make that happen whenever you like in the arena," she tells him, watching his brow wrinkle in thought. It's fascinating, seeing him not be one hundred percent certain of every little thing. Is this what he's like behind the façade?

"Yes, but it isn't the same. There's something about natural sunrises and sunsets that's just inimitable."

"Is that why last year's arena was nearly always in twilight?"

He nods. "We thought it would be an interesting twist if the tributes were forced to rely more on their other four senses. It was never fully dark, of course - night vision cameras don't provide the best images for viewers - but-" Frowning, he turns to her. "What did you think of it?"

"I thought it was beautiful. I love it when the sky looks purple and pink, or gold and grey, or any of the colors it gets between night and day." What had happened in the arena had been thrilling, too, but she had hated seeing her tributes die, one gored by a wild boar mutt, the other impaled by the girl from District Two.

That, however, she keeps to herself.

"As much as the tributes themselves are important, the arena is the setting for their collective story," he tells her. "And that's important, too."

"It's almost like a player in the Games, isn't it," she says. It seems a safe thought to voice, one that glorifies the Capitol's treatment of the descendants of the traitors of old, casting the playing field and those in charge of it in the role of gods. She can't take that away from them, really, not when there have been years where she has gone to visit retired arenas and imagine what it must have felt like to stand in them when they were at their most alive. Terrifying, surely, but perhaps also exhilarating. Whether they lived or died, tributes got to leave this world in glory.

"Exactly."

She doesn't know what makes them stop talking then, why they sit and stare at one another for what feels like hours. Maybe it's the starry sky that got them started on this, or maybe it's the simple fact that they can both still find mystery in the very event they are part of every year. Maybe even he has spared a thought for the tributes, has considered how fleeting their lives are, how even theirs here, exempt from the threat of death at such an age, aren't really in their hands.

She can't say, but what she does know for certain is that she cannot look away.

All they do that night is talk, but when she is home afterwards, she misses him for the first time since this began.


	15. Follow Venus

(If you have read this far, I hope you're enjoying it! I had an absolutely amazing time writing it. :D Not much longer to go!)

* * *

"No," Effie says firmly. She presses a white handkerchief to her brow, dabbing off the beads sweat that have gathered there since she came to stand beneath the awning over the lunch tables. "That's not right at all."

"Can you think of anything better?" asks Quintus.

"No, but certainly we can do better than 'From the Ashes.'"

"I still think we should stay away from fire completely," says Ismene, the lead technician.

"I agree," Effie says. "And I think it might take a full day of brainstorming to find a few good titles to choose from." Sighing, she reaches for the bottle of water in her bag, both purchased a few days ago from a vendor just up the road. It's still morning, but the humidity is high enough that it feels like high noon.

Even the builders are slower, the usual rhythm to their work weighed down by their labored breathing. It's hard enough to breathe while simply standing in the shade. Effie can't imagine how much worse it is for them.

"Maybe everyone in town should have the day off," she says, watching Oliver and Harlan work on the roof of the building across the road. "It's been dry for days now."

"Marsh said it'll rain today," says Agrippa, adjusting the zoom on his camera.

"He said the same thing yesterday," Ismene protests.

"No, yesterday he said it _might_ rain. This morning, he said it _will_ rain."

"Well, who knows when that will be?" Quintus interrupts. "Let's not waste time arguing. I think it's safe to say the most interesting thing that could happen today is someone passing out."

"_Quintus_!"

"I'm only stating the facts, Effie. The best thing we can do is take it easy. No unnecessary exertion, no fishing for shots if it means you'll be out in the sun for too long."

"Well, if we aren't going to work, then neither should they," Effie huffs. Shielding her face with her clipboard, she marches off across the road, waving to Harlan and Oliver with her free hand.

"Your camera operators can try to get up here if they want to, but I don't recommend it," Harlan calls down to her.

"You should stop," she says. "The heat is only going to get worse."

"This has to get finished first," Oliver tells her. "Don't worry. The mines were tougher. We'll be fine."

It's small comfort, but she takes it.

In the shade of the lunch area, she and the team settle on a day and time to hold a naming meeting and head off on their separate ways. Effie's umbrella does little to fight off the heat. By the time she reaches Peeta's house, all she can think of is taking a long, cold bath.

* * *

The bath turns into a nap that leaves her with wrinkled hands and feet. Still, she gets up only because she must, and once in her room, she spares a glance out the window at the overcast sky. With any luck, the temperature has dropped a few degrees, and both the builders and her film crew will be able to get work done.

When she is dressed and powdered again, she plucks her umbrella from the hook by the door and heads out. It is decidedly cooler in the shadow of the clouds, and much, much easier to breathe.

The crew members are in higher spirits, but only Agrippa has been sent out with his camera, and that only at his insistence.

"He wants to capture the moment when it starts to rain on the town garden," says Theodosia, one of the camera operators. She nods in the direction of the plot of land where the residents have begun to grow crops and flowers. "Weather shots are his forte. I could do this my whole life and never manage what he does."

"Well, Plutarch recommended all of you for a reason," Effie tells her.

"You should go too, Theodosia," says Quintus. "We need to see the residents when they see the rain."

"In a second." Theodosia turns to look at Effie, grinning. "I want to see the look on her face when you tell her."

"Is something the matter?" Effie asks.

Quintus shoots Theodosia a glare. "Nothing serious, don't worry."

"But it could be."

"Theodosia, if you miss this shot, I will put you on the next train back to the Capitol myself."

"That isn't for you to decide," Effie interrupts. "Now, will you please tell me what's going on?"

Quintus wait until Theodosia grabs her camera and starts for the town garden, then turns to Effie and says, "I think we are all too aware that we're coming up on what used to be reaping day. I've heard several suggestions as to what we should or shouldn't do on that day in honor of those who lost someone to the Games."

Effie nods. A few of them are hers, though she shares one with Katniss. That part, of course, she has left out. "Do you like any one in particular?"

"Yes," Quintus says, "but that's irrelevant. We owe the existence of this project to the permission the people here have given us to be here. I don't want to start imposing anything on them now."

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Both Effie and Quintus look up to check for rain, but the clouds hold their water yet.

"I've been speaking with the residents about what they would prefer to do," he continues. "A few of them wanted to just ignore it, but most said they wanted to replace it with something. The sentiment is that to ignore the day is to confer power to the old regime, I think."

"That makes sense." Frowning, she adds, "Except it was just last week that I spoke with Oliver about the matter, and he gave me the impression that the majority would rather ignore the day."

"That's his stance," Quintus clarifies. "But, believe it or not, even though that seemed to be the predominant thought, it's changed over the last week."

"I wonder why."

"I blame the weather. No - I thank it. It'll make for a better piece if something happens on that day."

"That's hardly an appropriate way to see it."

"It's the truth." He holds up his hands and shrugs. "In any case, the idea of a midsummer celebration seems to be catching on."

"Goodness," Effie gasps, resting a hand over her heart. "Do you know, Heather Marsh told me she'd prefer a memorial service to be held, if anything."

"I think that's pretty much everyone's thought on the matter."

"If that's the case, then where are you getting this about a festival?"

"From the people who tell me that we should stow our cameras for a midday memorial service, but not for, say, a celebration of having survived." He shrugs when she frowns at him. "I'm only telling you what I've been hearing."

"I don't know, Quintus," she says, shaking her head. "I trust you, but I'd like to see for myself."

He nods. "Well, you should get started on that before the rain comes in."

"Yes, and thank you. This gives us more to work with." She undoes the button on her umbrella, readying it for action, and heads out to investigate.

She has time for only one little interview, but it's all she needs to understand. As he stows the ladder in a sheltered space between two buildings, Harlan tells her about old traditions on hot summer days.

"Your people liked to pity us," he says. The absence from his voice of the anger he held towards her that first time she came into town is not lost on her. "We danced during the rebellion, just to show them they hadn't broken us. Wouldn't it be something for them to see us now and know for certain that our sadness was a result of their ignorance?"

"Yes, it certainly would," she agrees. Her stomach twists when the truth of his words settles firmly in her mind, bringing up memories of the fault she had in their suffering.

In that moment, it starts to rain.

* * *

Half her skirt is drenched when she finally reaches Peeta's house. She leaves her boots and umbrella by the door and rushes upstairs, shutting windows along the way against the increasing fury of the rainstorm. Lightning flashes overhead, and thunder rumbles behind it, giving the wind its cue to gust in earnest.

Once she has changed, she can find nothing to do. Her notes are up-to-date, and she has no pressing phone calls to make. If it weren't storming, she might go over to see Katniss and Peeta or Haymitch and his geese. As it stands, all she can do is have an early dinner and hope the rain lets up before late.

Downstairs, with a light on, she goes over the filming schedule for the following week and adds _Memorial Service_ and _Festival?_ in the memo space. Putting her doubt on paper makes it more palpable - even if it _is_ in pencil. She wants to believe such a celebration could happen, but isn't it too soon, and will the people here really want to throw a party after what will indubitably be a solemn event? Will they really be able to move away from the sadness their ghosts bring them and look to begin to enjoy in full the gift that was won by so much sacrifice?

Staring down at her planner, she fights against her own specters with little hope for victory. The rain goes on until late in the night, cloaking the house in a grey solitude that shows her the faces of old friends and loved ones. The only apology she can give them is for the sudden end to their lives; she will never regret having allowed herself to see the cracks in the veneer of the Hunger Games.

* * *

It rains on and off for the next three days and in a steady drizzle for the next two. The parched earth drinks its fill, the grass and trees regain their vibrant greens, and the plants in the town garden begin to grow in earnest. What little damage the wind of the first day caused is fixed by the evening of the third; the few children currently in the district play in the puddles, delighting film crew and builders alike; Heather Marsh has false labor contractions; and the residents begin to make plans for the summer festival.

The first day of blue skies ends with a spectacular sunset of vibrant oranges and pinks. Effie watches it from Haymitch's back porch, a pitcher of her iced tea between them. He likes it better with liquor, of course, but he hadn't been able to keep from his eyes the praise he might have given if he weren't so adverse to simple acts of kindness. She had settled instead for recalling Katniss' compliment and taken no offense to his addition to the tea she poured into his glass.

"Maybe this should be my contribution to the summer festival," she says, watching puffy clouds shift and morph as they flow across the sky.

He snorts.

She turns to look at him. "You don't think I should?"

"Do what you want," he answers, shrugging.

"You know it wasn't my idea, right? I certainly thought about it, but I kept it to myself." Except for when she discussed it with Katniss, but Effie doesn't think Haymitch needs to know that. Best to let Katniss decide if she wants to be involved in this or not.

"Really? Huh." He frowns and takes a drink. "Sounds like something you'd suggest."

She rolls her eyes.

"Anyway, it's like I said. Just do what you want. It isn't my problem."

"You _will_ go, though, right?"

Again, he shrugs. "Don't know. I'm sure Katniss and Peeta will try to convince me for a minute or two on the morning of festival day."

Already, "festival day" sounds a whole lot better to her than "reaping day," but she keeps that thought to herself for now. "Festival _night_, actually," she corrects, and he rolls his eyes. "In any case, and even though I know you don't want to hear it, I think it will be nice if you go."

"With all the things I've seen, I really don't think so, but I'm not going to argue the point with someone who's been through her own set of horrors."

"I meant for everyone else." She tries to be strong, but her voice comes out quiet, reserved. He more than anyone understands what reaping day was like for her, how it was to be onstage and look out at all those faces, all those people, those children with their names in the glass reaping balls even just once. That alone was one time too many for some.

Like Primrose Everdeen.

Effie holds her breath and shuts her eyes. The girl had been too far from the stage for Effie to see much more than her blonde hair and plain dress, but the fear in her frame had been enough to etch itself in Effie's mind. Being liberated from her punishment by her sister had only made it worse. That year, perhaps more than the year of the weeping boy, had made her wonder if the descendants of the rebels hadn't learned already their lesson and earned their freedom from the Games.

"You're missing Venus," Haymitch tells her, but what she hears in his tone is _come back, those days are over now_.

She opens her eyes, finds the bright shape of the evening star in the sky, and inhales deeply. "I really did mean it when I told them all they were lucky."

"They were, in a way," he says, sounding for all the world as if they are not discussing the children they took to be slaughtered. "You don't have to worry about where your next meal comes from when you're dead."

"I never thought of it like that."

"You wouldn't have. You didn't grow up like we did."

"What I meant was that-" The words sound ridiculous in her head, but she has begun this, and she will finish it. "For those few days before they went into the arena, they got to eat all they wanted, wear nice clothes, sleep in comfortable beds… They got to be famous. I really thought it would be good for them to know a better life before the end."

"Depends on how you define 'better,' I guess."

She sniffs and clears her throat. "It was so difficult to talk with people after the Games. You got to come back here and get away from everything for a while, but I had to stay in that world."

The worst had been seeing Seneca after the post-Games interviews. Everyone wanted to hear his perspective on the tributes' performances, what he had hoped for going into the Games, what he was proud of, what he would have done differently behind the scenes. He would go to her after each interview, and they would discuss the questions and his answers, and she would have to pretend to have loved the carnage at the Cornucopia or the surprise attacks of mutts or falling trees or whatever new element he had tried that year. On those nights, she had hated him, because every year since the weeping boy, she had hated the Games more and more.

"Yeah, I bet all those parties were tough."

"Stop it," she snaps, glaring at him. He bows his head deeply in a slow nod, his gaze flickering to her glass. When she looks down at it, she finds that she is gripping it far harder than necessary.

They sit in silence as the sky grows darker, until finally he stands and flicks on the porch light. He refills his glass with equal parts liquor and tea, and sits heavily beside her on the bench.

"All right," he tells her. "I'll stop by the festival. But I am not going to the memorial service."

She nods, giving him the smallest and briefest of smiles. "I'll make sure no one films you."

He snorts, a wry smile pulling back his lips. It's the most relaxed she's seen him look since she's been here, and she is the only one to witness it.


	16. The First Annual Summer Festival

Despite a lifetime of parties, banquets, and balls, Effie has never seen such a spirited celebration. The big bonfire in the center of the old square blankets the nearby buildings in a golden glow and cuts through the coolness of the night air. The serious workers Effie has been getting to know over the past few weeks become the liveliest of revelers, playing music, singing songs, dancing as if with the very spirit of joy.

"We're getting some amazing shots," says Agrippa, keeping his camera steady and pointed at the festivities as he glances at Effie. "This is going to look great."

"Oh, yes," she says. "But don't forget to go enjoy yourself. You deserve it."

She sees Katniss and Peeta laugh as a dance comes to an end. They spot Effie and walk towards her, leaving the fiddlers and singers and other dancers to take a brief rest.

"You looked wonderful out there!" Effie tells them, grinning. This is the happiest she has ever seen either of them. Tonight has taken from everyone the heavy cloak of loss, and it has given her precious pearls the chance to shine as every young woman and man should.

A fiddler plays a note, eliciting a cheer from the other side of the bonfire.

"Come on," Peeta says, holding his hand out.

"_Me_?" Effie asks. He nods, and she shakes her head. "Goodness, no! I don't know how." The steps she'd learned for her coming of age party and her entry into the right social circles in the Capitol were soft and subdued, a mere pantomime of happiness. They may have taught her coordination and poise, but they have left her sorely unprepared for a celebration such as this.

"It's easy," Katniss tells her.

"Says the professional!"

Katniss laughs and shakes her head. "If you can walk around in high heels without falling over, you can learn to dance."

The song begins in earnest. Peeta has not moved his hand, ready and waiting. In the dim electric lights over the building by which they stand, Effie feels as if this is the most important invitation of her life.

Katniss arches her eyebrows at her, a final push, and Effie takes Peeta's hand. "All right. Show me."

The steps are simple, and this dance as a whole is more about improvised movement than technical precision. Effie loses track of how many times she goes around the bonfire with the crowd. With every twirl, she feels as if she's taken flight. It's little wonder that the people of District Twelve retained their spirit during those seventy-five years of darkness. No one, no matter how powerful, could have taken away from them the simple joy of this music, these songs, these brief moments of happiness.

Now they are free to do this when they please.

Now the fires in their hearts burn true.

* * *

The night goes on, and so does the festival. Some of the older folk sit together underneath the lights hanging from the buildings, watching the younger ones continue with the celebration for all of them. Katniss and Peeta have gone off for a walk about the town, and Effie has retired to the edge of the square.

There, in the shadow of a half-broken wall, she watches the flames of the bonfire begin their slow, steady dimming. And there, as he walks away from what by day are the lunch tables, is where Haymitch finds her.

"Tired already?" he asks as he comes to a stop by the wall. It brings him close enough to her that neither of them needs to yell to be heard.

"Yes," she answers, and she smiles because it is a tiredness that comes with satisfaction.

"I saw they got you to join them."

She chuckles. "Katniss and Peeta insisted. I had a marvelous time."

"Better than the parties you're used to, I bet."

"So much so." She sighs away the weight of her past and all its ugly facts. Now is not the time. "I didn't see you out there, though. Do I detect diffidence?"

"Nah." He looks out at the bonfire, shaking his head. "Not really my thing, celebrating. Doesn't feel right."

Nodding, she sighs again, but this time the heaviness settles on her shoulders. "It really doesn't." She, too, turns to watch the festivities, the people lost in the heat of their freedom. This is their night, not hers. She has had more than her share of feasts and balls.

"Some of them lost their kids in the Games," he says after a while, nodding at the town square as she turns to look at him. "It's all I see when I look at them. Those kids' faces, how they died." He glances at the ground, and when he looks up and stares at the fire again, he is not seeing the dancers or the flames. Memory turns the grey of his eyes into that of storm clouds, and his voice into the quiet rolling of distant thunder as he says, "I can't stand to look at them."

For a moment, she is silent. Across the square, she spots Agrippa sitting in a group of four other men, his camera off and by his feet. She remembers that last year, this was reaping day, and that she and others like Agrippa had gathered in this very square for a far more sinister event.

"Yes," she says. "I noticed that, too." She crosses her arms, gripping her elbows, and forces herself to stare straight ahead despite what she sees in the fire, the years and years of boys and girls and families torn apart. "I reaped them. I took those children away to die." And she had done it with a show of excitement, an air of celebration, a mockery of real, true joy. "I may as well have killed them myself."

"I didn't exactly give them much of a chance, either," he remarks, shrugging. Then he lifts up the full, unopened bottle of liquor in his hand. "This is my celebration. My own memorial service. One drink for every kid."

She chuckles, a sound devoid of mirth. "I should join you."

Arching his eyebrows, he meets her gaze. His fingers shift about the neck of the bottle he holds as he considers this. Possibly he is weighing the odds of it having been a joke; possibly he thinks she is right.

If he were to ask for clarification, she wouldn't know what she had meant. She takes her cue instead from him, from how he yanks the cork out of the top of the bottle and holds it out for her to take.

The glass is cool in her palm, the smell of its contents strong enough that she feels it burn already. She eyes the rim of it carefully before putting it to her lips. If it really is so unsanitary, she tells herself, whatever this is will sterilize everything with which it comes into contact.

And choke her, too, because it is at least twice as strong as it smells.

To his credit, he doesn't laugh when she coughs, merely takes the bottle from her and lets her regain her breath in peace. Her eyes water with the effort, but still she fights the liquor's harsh sting. Part of it is pride, but most of it is the need to get over the shock.

"What _is_ that?" she finally manages.

"Moonshine." He is almost proud as he says it, a smirk carrying on his voice. "Strongest whiskey money can buy around here, but Ripper only makes it for special occasions." He shakes his head. "Damn shame. I could live off this."

She can only imagine, but she values air too greatly right now to say so.

"Tradition's been in her family since before the Dark Days," he continues, plugging the bottle with the cork. "Things like this, all that dancing - they kept us going. Showed us the Capitol could never completely own us."

It seems only right, then, that he drink to all those children with a concoction untouched by the very power that murdered them.

He taps his fingers against the glass again, and for a while, the only sound comes from the revelers. In the relative silence, the stinging in her throat subsides, what little of the moonshine she drank burning in her stomach.

"It goes down easier cold," he remarks a while later. He turns his back on the bonfire and begins the walk back to Victors Village, glancing at her as he goes past her. It's as good an invitation as she's getting, she realizes.

She follows him because he is running from ghosts like the ones that haunt her.

In his house, he gets them glasses and ice. They sit at the bare dining room table, adjacent to one another, the bottle over by his hand because, he says, he can handle it better this way.

"Twenty-four years of games," he says as he fills her glass. "Forty-eight kids. No, forty-six. Katniss and Peeta survived."

Quickly, she does the math for her years in the employ of killers. "Eleven years. Twenty-two children. Year twelve's are Katniss and Peeta."

"Best get started, then." He lifts his glass, shuts his eyes briefly, then drinks. That's one child honored, forty-five to go.

She follows suit, making it three years into her career before the world feels unsteady. "I should go," she says, but even sitting, she sways.

"Not like that, you aren't," he tells her. "Wait the worst of it out, have some water."

His voice pounds against her eardrums, muffling the sound his chair makes against the floor when he stands. Nodding slowly, she shuts her eyes against the headache beginning to form. It pulses dully, in time with his footsteps, growing in intensity the farther away he goes.

She hears glasses clinking together in the kitchen like distant wind chimes, and, lulled to safety by the sound, she opens her eyes.

A few seconds later - or perhaps a few hours, she can't tell - when his footsteps approach, she is still staring, wide-eyed, at the twenty-two children standing across the table from her.

"Haymitch," she breathes, afraid to startle them into action, afraid to blink.

"Here," he says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him set a tall glass of water before her.

Slowly, she reaches for it, and it's only as she drinks that she realizes that the blurring of her vision has nothing to do with the whiskey.

As time goes by and the effects of the liquor begin to subside, the children disappear. The last to go is the boy who cried and cried, the one for whom she had felt such pity that she brought a world of trouble on herself.

"This keeps me from seeing things," Haymitch says, breaking a silence that has stretched for far too long. "Didn't know it would do the opposite for you."

So he knows, then, what horror she has just faced. She meets his gaze, frowning as she begins to connect the dots. "Forty-six of them. Twenty-four years. That must be-" She cannot find the words, so she sighs.

"You need to sleep," he says.

"Yes." Though she wonders if she'll get much sleep at all tonight.

"I'll walk you home."

"You're worse off than I am," she says, shaking her head. "You've had more."

He stands, arching an eyebrow. "I'm used to it."

The short trip to Peeta's house takes at least twice as long as normal. She is able to stay upright and walk straight forward, but he is near enough her that she must resist the urge to lean against him. This is not a night out like in her youth, she reminds herself, and she is more than capable of walking without help.

But when they reach the house, she cannot stop herself kissing his cheek. The stubble of his beard scratches her skin, and the immediacy of it banishes the lingering memory of the twenty-two pairs of eyes, like a lantern in the dark.

They linger there before the door, in the dim lighting from the road and the stars, until she clears her throat.

"Don't drink too much," she tells him, the silence having long since become too much to bear. He may say the liquor helps keep the memories away, but that can't be the whole truth.

He smiles wryly, shaking his head. "Good night, Effie."

She nods, sighing. "You, too."

He turns and leaves, and she watches him go, wondering what awaits him when he gets home, wishing she could make it leave him alone.


	17. Sympathy

The morning after the festival is warm and bright, a herald of the hot days that will come after midsummer. Katniss leaves Peeta's side to walk barefoot in the morning dew, humming one of the ditties from last night. No mockingjays sing the notes back; only common songbirds greet the morning with her, but she does not feel alone. This is the closest she has felt to peaceful in months.

Peeta is starting breakfast when she heads back inside half an hour later. She smiles, skipping the customary good morning in favor of brushing a kiss against his lips as she sets some water to boil.

"Someone's having a good day so far," he remarks, grinning.

"Yeah, you sure are."

They take their breakfast on the porch, steaming bowls of oatmeal with sweet cream and wild berries, and mugs of spicy tea to wash it down.

"Everything went really well yesterday," Peeta remarks. "It was great to see everyone so relaxed last night."

"Yeah. I had sort of forgotten what most of their smiles looked like," Katniss admits. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to really laugh." She can't help the thought of the last time she saw Prim dance, the wedding in District Thirteen, the single happiest moment for many of those people after months under a tyrant of a different kind. She has to comfort herself with memories of the few dreams she has had where Prim comes to her with a smile.

"I think it got everyone thinking of excuses to have another one," he says, chuckling.

"Maybe when the next building is done?"

"I think the Marshes' baby will be born before that."

"Right. So that, then." She stirs her oatmeal and scoops up a spoonful, eyeing it closely before eating it. Heather Marsh had spent most of her time sitting with her feet propped up, laughing as she watched her husband dance. They are lucky, the first in their district to never know what it is to fear for their child's life.

Katniss wants to be happy for them, but she cannot muster the feeling. Her heart is too wounded. If not for Peeta and the ghosts, she thinks she might not have much of a heart left at all.

"Are you going to bake them a cake?"

"That goes without saying, doesn't it?" He smiles. "Their daughter will be a pioneer, in a way."

"No one will ever feel sorry for her," she says. "Except for how there are so many people she'll never meet. I'm sorry," she adds hastily, shaking her head. "It's- That's why we're working on the book. So they'll always be remembered."

There is no reproach in his eyes when she looks up at him, only a sad sympathy that tells her he understands. He always understands, sometimes even better than she does.

They finish their breakfast in silence. She washes the bowls and mugs while he gets started on the buns they'll have for lunch. When she is done, she hangs the towel to dry and sets to work on the book, where she loses herself so fully that it takes his coming over and placing a plate with a roll on it to pull her from her thoughts.

He smiles and says, "I thought you might want something ahead of the main course."

"Thank you," she tells him, her voice heavy with sincerity and guilt. An apology forms on her tongue, but before she can voice it, the phone rings.

He starts for it, but she stops him with a hand to his arm. "I'll get it," she tells him. "You've been on your feet all morning. You need a break."

Shaking his head, he chuckles and takes a seat. She touches his shoulder as she goes past, the lingering warmth of the contact keeping the small smile on her face steady.

She picks up mid-ring, and barely gets out _hello_.

"Katniss?"

"Haymitch? Is-"

"Come to Peeta's house."

She frowns. "What's wro-"

"_Right now_."

He hangs up before she can respond.

"What happened?" Peeta asks as she sets down the phone.

"Haymitch is at your house. He wants me to go over right away." The words click into place as they hit the air. She and Peeta look at one another, the same thought shooting through their heads.

They are up and out within seconds.

* * *

Haymitch is in the kitchen when they get there, gripping the edges of a counter for support. He looks shaken but not shaky, so it isn't withdrawal that has led him to leave his house before noon. Moreover, it isn't drunkenness. There is no mess here, no evidence that he stumbled in looking for anything.

"Where's Effie?" asks Peeta.

"Upstairs," Haymitch answers.

"What's wrong?" Katniss asks.

Haymitch rubs his forehead, sighing heavily. "I came to make sure she was all right. Last night got a bit rough for her for a while there." He shifts his weight from the hand gripping the counter to his feet and back again. His usual, nonchalant control is slipping from him.

Katniss' stomach clenches. "Is she okay?"

He tilts his head sideways and lifts a shoulder in a shrug; a moment later, he shakes his head. "I heard yelling when I got here, so I ran upstairs. But the minute I opened the door to see what was wrong, she started screaming at me to get out. I don't think she was really awake. I didn't get a good look at her or the room. I just kept trying to tell her it was okay, but she wasn't listening. She wasn't really here."

"She was back in prison," Peeta says, his eyes shifting out of focus as he glimpses that place again.

Katniss touches his arm, bringing him back. "You should go talk to her."

Peeta shakes his head. "She'll think I'm there with her. It has to be you."

"He's right, Katniss." Haymitch releases the counter and rubs his hand, pressing his thumb hard into his palm. "It can't be either of us. Don't question it," he adds quickly, cutting her off before she can get a word in. "Just hurry up."

Katniss clenches her fists, but she does not contest the order. They wouldn't say so if it weren't true. A look at Peeta confirms this, his nod giving her the nudge she needs to go. Breathing deeply, releasing the tension in her frame, she heads upstairs, silent as if on the hunt.

She knocks on the guest room door and turns the knob. "Effie?" she calls, pushing the door open slowly. When she gets no response and no command to go, she takes a step inside.

Effie is huddled into a ball by her bed, trembling, her bed sheets a mess, her night clothes wrinkled, her hair - her real hair, a tangle of dark brown that might pass for black in the right lighting - disheveled. Her wig sits on her vanity, and it's then that Katniss remembers what Haymitch said. She wasn't really awake when he got here. She was sleeping, at her most vulnerable.

Katniss shuts the door gently and takes a step forward. Effie snaps her head up, her eyes wild with fear and anger - and, Katniss sees a moment later, with a pain she remembers seeing in her own eyes. It's beyond physical, beyond psychological, because betrayal is a severing of the deepest trust. Betrayal is what hurts the most, and Effie knows that firsthand. Her people did this to her, those she had served with such fervor for so long.

"It's me," Katniss says softly. "It's Katniss."

For a moment, Effie's gaze remains hard, disbelieving. Then Katniss' words sink in, and the fog lifts from her mind, and her eyes widen and fill with tears.

Slowly, Katniss approaches. When she senses the edges of Effie's tolerance for proximity, she sits down on the floor and waits. For what, she isn't sure, but she knows she must be patient in this. Once, Buttercup had refused even Prim's help with an injury, and it had taken her gentle sister hours to regain the cat's trust.

If ghosts can be guardian spirits, Katniss hopes Prim is hers.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, her gaze and her voice never once faltering.

Effie draws in a shaky breath and narrows her eyes. Tears tumble down her cheeks.

"You were dreaming," Katniss tells her. "But it's okay now. It's over."

"It's never over," Effie breathes, clutching her elbows.

That much certainly feels true, but that isn't what she needs to hear. "It is sometimes."

Sniffing, Effie lowers her gaze to her feet, the pristine skin and toenails that Katniss will never envy because she loves the reality of dirt and mud.

"I'm sorry," Effie murmurs.

"What for?"

"This."

"You haven't done anything wrong. I do this. Peeta does this. Haymitch does this." Katniss looks up at the ceiling and thinks of all the people who do this now, those who have lost someone or lost themselves.

"I have no right to anyone's sympathy."

"Of course you do."

Effie shakes her head. "I wish I'd died."

"Don't say that." The words leave Katniss' mouth so quickly it surprises even her, because it isn't until now that she realizes that she would have missed the woman who had been her escort. Snow's execution day would have been even more chaotic if a stranger had been made to help Katniss prepare. The person's colors would've been all wrong, too, no matter what they might have worn. Those horrible leather shoes would have been lost to family that could never wear them as well. Any other person's cheerful disposition would have grated on her.

And any other person would have bid her good-bye at the train station all those months ago without a care. They would not have yearned for the familiar faces of the victors of District Twelve. They would not have come here on a selfish errand that would end up becoming so much more.

"You've given everyone something to look forward to," Katniss adds.

"They never needed it."

"Maybe not, but look at what happened yesterday." Effie shakes her head again, and Katniss sighs. "I'm sorry, too, then."

"Why? You saved us all."

Katniss shrugs.

They sit in silence for a while, Effie slowly coming out of the grasp of the shadows, Katniss wondering if Peeta and Haymitch will come up if she stays here long enough. She's lost track of the minutes since she walked in, the bright summer sunlight giving her little indication as to the time beyond it being around midday. A slight ache in her lower back tells her it has definitely been a while, even though it looks as if Effie has hardly moved, still curled up as if to hide from the world forever.

"You look pretty, by the way," Katniss tells her. When Effie looks at her and frowns, she clarifies, "Your hair. I think it's pretty."

Finally, Effie shifts, lifting a hand to her head. She feels the dark strands, and her eyes widen. With her free hand, she reaches for her blankets as she looks about the room, seeking cover, unwittingly showing more of what she hides every day: a scar on her cheek, and several smaller ones on her nose and chin.

Her search is short-lived; she looks at Katniss' feet, and, realizing it's too late now, she wilts, a flower on a sweltering day.

Katniss almost feels badly for bringing it up. "Do you want me to go?"

Effie opens her mouth to speak, shuts it quickly, then nods.

"Okay." Katniss stands, hovering nearby for a moment. Should she hold out her hand to help Effie to her feet? The answer comes seconds later; Effie stays where she is.

Sighing quietly, Katniss heads for the door.

"Katniss."

Her hand on the doorknob, Katniss turns to Effie.

"Don't-" Effie bites her lips and squints, doubtless trying to keep more tears at bay. "Don't tell anyone about my hair."

"Of course not," Katniss says. "I promise."

"Thank you."

* * *

"Why couldn't it be you who went to talk to her?" Katniss asks Haymitch as they leave Peeta's house. Peeta left for Katniss' house earlier, having remembered the bread he had left in the oven. "You're one of the people who went to rescue her."

"It just couldn't be," he tells her firmly, and he goes off the path and in the direction of his house.

In her kitchen, she asks Peeta why it couldn't be him, adding, "She wouldn't have thought you were there with her. You didn't share a cell, right?"

"That isn't the point," he tells her. "You just have to trust me on that."

She purses her lips, but she does not press the issue.

"It isn't for me to tell you," he adds, because he senses her latent curiosity, even though he is staring at the dough he is kneading.

"I don't expect you to," she says. She doesn't expect anyone to talk about any of the horrors they survived. The ghosts, at least, can be a comfort, but the memories of pain and despair are unforgiving.

She only wishes those terrible things would leave them all alone.


	18. The Glittering Capitol, Pt 3

**TRIGGER WARNING:** dubious consent.

* * *

_Year of the 73rd Hunger Games_

He has an emerald green tattoo of vines on his side that he attributes to a wild night with some friends from school.

"We had wild nights, too," she says, "but I never got a tattoo because of one."

"Because you are a saint, of course," he tells her as she sits, fully dressed, on the edge of the bed. He reaches for a lavender curl, and she swats his hand away. "A veritable saint."

"No, I am like every other well-behaved citizen you'll come across in life. _You_, however…" She leaves it at that, tracing one of the curling emerald vines with a fingertip. The vibrant green contrasts beautifully with the violet of her nails, giving her ideas for her next shopping trip.

"Keep my secret?"

She nods, grinning. The exchange is almost a liturgy of theirs now, repeated nearly word for word on those days or nights when the curves of the vines seem to beckon to her with his every breath. It is a refuge from the pressure to perform because here, she can behave as would a friend and it will pass as something more.

And as she is an excellent friend, she can finally rest easy.

* * *

_Year of the 74th Hunger Games_

"So why is it that you don't go by your full name?"

She adjusts the big flower pin in her hair, glancing at his reflection in the mirror before her. "Is there something wrong with my going by my nickname?"

"No," he answers, shrugging. "I'm only curious. Most people I know tell me they grow out of theirs."

"Oh, well, they just stick with you sometimes, nicknames," she says, shrugging. "Mine certainly did. But do you know, I used to hate mine when I was younger. I wanted to feel like a lady, so I kept correcting everyone who called me 'Effie.'"

"And now you introduce yourself that way."

He comes up behind her and places his hands on her shoulders, staring into the mirror with her. Surely he means to be reassuring or sweet, but she cannot help but remember, as the muscles in her neck tighten, that she is imprisoned, bound to him as some sort of prize or pretty doll.

Breathing deeply, she nods. "I think it makes me seem more approachable. I'm an escort, you know. I am the face of the Capitol for District Twelve. I can't be mysterious or removed, not like you with your fancy title."

"There is that, yes," he says, arching an eyebrow. "But there's also the fact that you simply can't find a good nickname for me."

"Hmm." She puts a hand to her chin and purses her lips, lifting her gaze to the ceiling. "Let's see. Sen, Sennie, Neca… Goodness, you're right, those are all awful." From the corner of her eye, she sees him cringe. "I suppose it would have to be an animal pun at that point. You know, what with Crane. But what would it be? I don't associate any particular animal with you except possibly mutts, but there are so many of those!"

"Now you see the problem." He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "It would take too much thought to come up with anything, so no one ever did."

"Oh, I've got one!" She clasps her hands together and whirls to face him, delighting in the suspicious curiosity written all over his face. Holding back a laugh, she prolongs the wait for a moment, standing on the balls of her feet and grinning brightly.

He shifts under her gaze, but finally, he cracks. "Are you going to tell me sometime this week?"

Giggling, she says, "Beardsley."

Time slows for a moment, and she sees him go from shocked to insulted to amused within a second. Then, just as quickly, she darts away, and he gives chase. She is easy prey in her high heels and tight skirt, and the room gives her little room to play out her role. His hand closes about her arm far too soon, and though they are both laughing, her heart is pounding, screaming at her to go, to refuse, to beg to be set free. The words are on the tip of her tongue as they face each other, _please, let's end this, I can't do this anymore, let me go_, and she wonders if President Snow would accept the dissolution of this arrangement if she pushes Seneca into argument after argument until he has no more patience for her.

"That was _terrible_," he tells her, barely suppressing a grin. He isn't breathing hard at all. But, of course, he has no reason to be. The hunt lasted all of five seconds, and he is not being punished for one tiny mistake.

"It was too easy," she says, forcing a breathy laugh. "I'm sorry."

He fixes her floral pin, nodding. "Apology accepted."

He means it, too. It is always easy to get him to forget things. As far as prison guards go, he is the best kind, showing her no cruelty because he knows not the power he possesses.

But Effie cannot forget it. Perhaps that, in the end, is her true punishment: to know that she has brought this on herself, and that what has been done cannot be undone. Rebels must suffer. Rebels can never know peace again.

Maybe it would hurt less if she were really a rebel, if these were the Dark Days and she had meant to overthrow the Capitol with her words. Then her suffering would be glorious, and she could feel proud of her imprisonment.

But she hadn't intended that, and she is no rebel. She is a good citizen, a glowing escort, and she will do as she is told.

* * *

_Year of the 75th Hunger Games_

Effie is introduced to the new Head Gamemaker only a few days after he is promoted. No private meetings with President Snow this time, no discussions of past misbehavior, no reminders to stay on the straight and narrow path of perfect obedience. Attendance at the first big social event of the year leading up to the seventy-fifth Games and third Quarter Quell is very nearly mandatory, so of course she and the other escorts are there, and of course all the Gamemakers are as well.

Plutarch Heavensbee takes one of her hands in both of his and shakes it firmly, studying her for a moment after their _hellos_ and _how do you dos_ have been swallowed by the crowd. Then he blinks, the strange spell on him not quite broken, and tells her softly, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Oh." She swallows, nodding, forcing herself not to pull back her hand. "Yes. I- Thank you." It's still strange to hear those words. In the eyes of society, she was neither family nor friend of the deceased, but somewhere in between. She isn't sure, herself, given the details of the arrangement. Beyond the funeral and burial, every instance of someone giving their condolences has given her pause. Luckily, that is a permissible manifestation of grief.

Even in death, Seneca makes some of the tragedy bearable.

Heavensbee releases her hand but does not move on. "He did very good work in preparation for this year's Games," he says. "It's a shame he won't get to see them come to life."

Effie nods. "I'm sure it will be a wonderful arena."

"Oh, it's outstanding."

He grins widely, and she smiles and nods, just to please him. It doesn't reach her eyes, but she will let grief cover for her again.

In the moment before he tells her good-bye, she realizes that his grin had been forced, too, but she can't imagine why. Maybe he misses his colleague that much, or maybe he feels sorry for her and what she has lost, the future she might have had if President Snow's sentence had been meant to remain in effect for the rest of her life.

All the better for her if that's what people think. With President Snow's approval of her performance and acceptance of her continued loyalty, she is as free as she will ever be.

Except she isn't free, really. As she stands with Cinna and Portia by a window in the vast hall, Effie understands the truth of the situation: she must always maintain the pretense demanded of her, because the truth can only result in her death. President Snow has made that much very clear.

"I think I'll retire early tonight," she tells Cinna and Portia. "Thank you for your always wonderful company. I'm just feeling very tired."

"Of course," Portia says, nodding sympathetically. "Good night, Effie."

Cinna places a hand on Effie's shoulder, stopping her before she goes. He waits until she meets his gaze, then tells her, "Things will get better soon. Trust me on that."

For anyone else, Effie would have played the eternal optimist, attempting to dazzle with a brilliant grin. But because it is Cinna and she has come to like him very much since his appointment as District Twelve stylist, the smile she gives him is broken and sincere. "Thank you. You know I would trust you with anything."

* * *

"I don't know what to do," Effie says quietly. A light breeze blows overhead, rustling the leaves of the evergreens, leaving her untouched. Still, she draws her coat tighter about herself, shivering. This is the only place she allows herself to be upset or afraid. She has given up the ideas of privacy and safety, but perhaps, in the context of grief, any unpatriotic comments might be forgiven, ascribed to the temporary madness of her lonely misery.

"I know there's no way you could help even if you were here, but at least I could have asked." He wouldn't have understood, anyway. There is nothing he could have said that would take away the ache that burns in her chest every time she remembers the special rules for this year's Quell.

"I'm going to lose at least one of them," she says, sniffing. "Probably two. The first victory of my career, and I don't even get to enjoy it. None of us do."

She does not sit on the grass because it will ruin her skirt and stockings; it's bad enough there is mud on her shoes from the dampness left behind by last night's rain. Besides, it's irrational to want to be closer to the bones in the earth. There is nothing to be gained from that, only a phantom closeness and terrible mud stains.

And hadn't she wanted to be free of him anyway?

"Things are not supposed to be this way." Clutching his white handkerchief to her chest, she sniffs. "The Victory Tour was supposed to have been perfect, but I couldn't- it was out of my hands. And now, with the Quell-"

She is glad for the sob she must suppress. It keeps her from saying things she shouldn't, such as how much she cares for her victors, how fond she has become of their rude alcoholic of a mentor, how she will hate to see any of them die because they have been hers to care for this year, longer in Haymitch's case, and she can't imagine never seeing one of them again.

"They were supposed to get married, Seneca," she weeps, patting her cheeks dry. "I had a wedding to plan. I was so excited. What will we do with all those dresses? Even if Katniss wins-"

This time the wind does come her way; it is cold, carrying a warning of snow on its breath.

Effie shuts her eyes. "What do I do?"

Her mind responds in his voice, smooth in tone, gentle in volume and force. _You know the answer to that. You must work your hardest, be at your best, and steel your heart against the children of the rebels._

Holding the handkerchief to her face, she covers her nose and mouth as if from the cold and breathes, "But we're a team, and I want them all to live."

She stays that way for some time, taking refuge in grief. This, she suspects, is an extension of her punishment. Though she is now free again, Seneca's death is as much a warning to her as to anyone with thoughts of rebelling. What's worse is that he had meant no real harm by his mistake, much like she hadn't all those years ago among her colleagues. Snow's message is loud and clear: dissidence of any sort will not be tolerated, and its consequences will be delivered and felt immediately.

As she leaves the safety of the cemetery, she spares a moment for one angry, truly traitorous thought: if there are any rebels in the Capitol, she hopes this has strengthened their resolve, because if this iron-fisted rule continues for too long, they will all suffocate or become mindless drones, mutts programmed to believe in the illusion of free will.

In the meantime, she will keep her fleeting faith in the simple idea of them burning bright. It is the only thing she can do, and it is the only thing that will sustain her during the Quell, when she must watch and wait for at least one of her pearls to be crushed.


	19. In Perfect Trust

Effie stays in on the day after the summer festival. There is nothing to miss, as everyone, her film crew included, had decided earlier in the week that this would be a mandatory day off. Never has she been gladder for a break. Seclusion is permissible on the grounds of too much dancing or too much drink, so after Katniss and the rest leave, Effie makes her bed, wraps her hair, and sets about tidying up the house.

Ghosts follow her at every turn, sometimes one, sometimes many. In the mostly clean countertops, she sees her own blood and that of murdered tributes; it takes far longer than normal to scrub the surfaces clean. When she is finally finished some hours later, she washes her hands with scalding water, satisfied of their cleanliness only when her skin has turned red.

Red splattered on the weeping boy's chest, red the sash across the Head Gamemaker's chest, red turned to brown on her face and hands that goes away only after hours in the bath.

A brief rainstorm in the evening cools the temperature enough that she layers on the covers and huddles in bed, cocooned and protected. That night's dreams are of deceased relatives telling her to go home, and of her sweet grandfather telling her he thinks he understands.

The morning sunlight wakes her heart along with her body. Today, she can face the outside world. She finds strength in her preparations for the day, dons it in the form of a floral dress and her wig and make-up.

At base camp, the film crew members are gathered around Quintus, relaxed and smiling. As Quintus generally does not inspire such calm in them, Effie is suspicious as she approaches them.

"It felt so good to sleep in," she hears Agrippa tell Theodosia, who nods enthusiastically.

"Good morning," Effie says to the group.

Quintus takes this as his cue. "All right, we've had our fun. Now it's back to the usual schedule. You all know where you're supposed to be.

"But before that, I want you to keep in mind that at five this evening, we are having our naming meeting. I hope you spent at least part of yesterday coming up with ideas." He eyes Theodosia in particular at that; she smirks. "All right, everyone, get to work."

He waves Effie over as they disperse. She weaves through them, wishing them luck as she goes, while Quintus busies himself with the team's computer and its peripherals.

"I want you to see what Ismene and I worked on yesterday afternoon," he tells her.

"Do you ever take breaks, Quintus?"

"Yes. I call them 'sleeping,' 'napping,' and 'eating.' You should try them sometime."

She rolls her eyes, but she can't help a smile. "Oh, I'm already a fan."

"There." Gesturing to the monitor, he says, "It's only a few seconds, but I think it turned out well."

It's a shot of the rainstorm from the week before, Agrippa's footage with some of Theodosia's near the end. Quintus had been right to hurry them on that day; to have missed these beautiful scenes would have been a tragedy.

"It looks wonderful," she tells him, smiling. "You're not going to leave the editors much to do, are you?"

He chuckles. "They'll have plenty. I just wanted to try and set the tone with this."

"It's perfect."

"Good. All that's left now is to find the perfect title, and we can maybe relax for the rest of this."

"Yes," she says, nodding. She knows better than to expect that to be the case, but she can hope.

And from the look on Quintus' face, he is clinging to that hope, too.

* * *

Early in the afternoon, Effie goes to see Heather Marsh. As head of the project, Effie is more of a public relations manager, the face of the documentary, the go-to person on behalf of Capitol TV. It's a testament to everyone's resilience that no one has brought up how like the old days this is, aside from her first time in town. All the better, she thinks. Maybe she can begin to bid some of her ghosts good-bye.

"Still no name?" Effie asks Heather as she hands her a cushion for her back.

Heather leans back in her seat and sighs heavily. "We're close. You?"

Effie shakes her head. "We'll be working on that tonight."

"Best of luck to you."

"Thank you." She pauses a moment, letting Heather breathe, and resists the urge to ask Heather if she's all right. Surely Heather would tell her if she weren't. "How was your interview the other day?"

"Oh, great." Heather sighs again, frowning slightly. "It didn't take very long. That Ismene is a nice woman."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Effie falters a moment, Heather's smile a small comfort, but presses on. "I can't wait to see it. How do you- I'm sorry, but I must ask you, are you all right? You don't look very comfortable."

Breathing deeply, Heather shakes her head. "I don't know. It could be another false alarm."

"Would you like me to get your husband?"

Heather nods. "Tell him to go get Yasmin, please. Just in case."

"Of course. I'll be right back."

Robert Marsh is off before Effie relays the whole message. She waits for him at the door, keeping an eye on Heather. Not two minutes later, he rushes back with Yasmin, trailed on either side by Theodosia and Agrippa. Both camera operators stay outside while Yasmin checks on Heather. Effie waits by the door, and Robert hovers between her and his wife, updating the one and supporting the other.

Finally, Yasmin motions to the door and says, "Keep everyone out of here. It's the real thing this time."

On cue, Heather groans, and Robert has only enough time to shoot Effie an apologetic glance before rushing to his wife's side.

Effie heads outside and shuts the door behind her. By now, a few of the builders and most of her film crew have gathered in front of the house. Clearing her throat, Effie says, "It's time. Let's give them some privacy. Go and film around town as you spread the news."

The crew split up, some following residents and others going off on their own. In the space between them and the family on the other side of the door, Effie is filled with nervous energy. With no immediate task, she rushes to find Quintus.

"We'll still hold the meeting," he tells her. "We'll rotate the team in pairs so someone will always be ready for when the baby is born."

The afternoon passes slowly as they all wait. Even the builders, usually so focused, do not manage to keep their usual pace. The wait is so unexciting that Quintus calls the meeting to order early just to keep everyone focused.

And it is nothing short of a disaster. Half the suggestions get shot down right away for being related in some way to fire, and a quarter of them are either too long or off tone. They keep the ones that refer to song or dance, but Effie already know those will be cut. The right title will make her want to sit up and listen closely to a story she already knows. The closest ones right now are the ones that talk of the weather or the district itself.

They part ways again after the meeting. Quintus asks Effie to stay and sort through the suggested titles with him, but she declines.

"None of them feels right, and I don't think we should settle just yet." He narrows his eyes at her. She adds, "You know it's true."

"I can't disagree," he concedes tersely.

Shrugging, she glances at the sky. "I'm heading out. Call me from the train station as soon as anything happens."

"Don't be surprised if you get a call in the middle of the night."

"I fully expect a rude awakening," she says as she walks off.

* * *

On her way, Effie gives Peeta the news about the Marshes to share with Katniss when she gets home from hunting, and he gives her a few sweet buns to have later.

"Peeta," she says, half scolding. "You are too generous. Your house to stay in is enough for me."

"This is the way things are here, Effie," he tells her, smiling. "We look out for one another, even if some of us would rather never admit to it."

"Thank you." She leaves out the specifics of her gratitude. He doesn't need them, anyway, probably knows even better than she does all the things behind her words.

There are too many buns to eat at once, so she goes to visit Haymitch. He, however, does not answer her knock. She goes inside anyway, but he is out cold on the couch downstairs. Shaking her head, she grabs a plate from the kitchen and leaves him a few of the sweet buns, then heads back to Peeta's house.

It's been dark for about an hour when Haymitch comes in after a short, loud knock. He took the time to shower after his bout of unconsciousness, she notices; his hair is still visibly damp and blackest black.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" she asks from where she sits on the couch, her planner open on her lap.

He gives her a wide, fake grin as he sets a bottle of wine on the coffee table. "You left me dinner," he says. "Peeta and Katniss never leave food out on plates for me. It was very you, that set-up."

"Well, I'm glad you're awake," she says, indicating the space next to her. "I went to give you some news, but you were sleeping."

He sits heavily on the couch, still tired, or drunk, or both. "Well?"

"Heather Marsh went into labor."

Nodding slowly, he shrugs. "Well, I hope it goes quickly."

"I'll be getting a call as soon as the baby is born."

"How lovely."

She stares pointedly at him and shakes her head.

Rolling his eyes, he sighs. "We'll drink to the moment." He gestures to the bottle on the table.

"Yes." Nodding firmly, she looks back down at her planner. She and the team are coming up on the end of their allotted filming time. All too soon, they will need to pack up and go. By then they will surely have obtained enough footage to deliver a truly amazing documentary. But will they ever get to come back? Will Effie be ready to pick up her life again in the Capitol?

"How'd you do yesterday?"

She turns to face him, holding her breath. "All right," she answers after a moment. "It- to be honest, I'd rather not talk about yesterday."

"Okay," he says, but it evidently is not.

Sighing, she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I just find it- embarrassing."

"I sleep with a knife and attack furniture with it, and I am no stranger to drinking myself sick. I think I've got embarrassing covered."

"I don't mean to compete, Haymitch," she says, wrinkling her nose.

"I know." Arching his eyebrows, he shrugs. "I won't ask about it again, but you can bring it up, if you want. It's up to you."

"Thank you."

In the silence that follows, she stares at her planner, reading her notes to fill her head with noise. Beside her, he plucks lint from his dark brown pants. A lifetime of lessons on manners and proper behavior brings a heavy guilt to weigh upon her, so she sighs, sets her planner on the coffee table, and turns to him.

She tells him about her ghosts, about the blood all over the house and her hands and face. She tells him about her grandfather and the others in her dream and how strange it is to know that she is betraying them by doing what she believes to be right.

"Now I think I understand why you lied so much," she tells him, and there is not a trace of accusation in her voice or her eyes or any part of her. "You had to."

In exchange, he tells her stories of his own, the less humiliating ones, she presumes, and a few of Katniss having to douse him with water to rouse him from unconsciousness.

They end up opening the bottle early, but they limit themselves to only one glass each. The drink eases the tension in his forehead at once, brings out a little laughter in both of them, and they dare to think of the better memories of the days of the Games, of tributes who gave their prep teams headaches and the few who tried to make Caesar Flickerman's interviews as difficult as they could.

"Oh, and the girl who ripped off Benvolio's wig before the parade," she says, hiding a laugh behind her hand. "His designs were so uninspired. He deserved it!"

"He made them go out there naked," he reminds her, rolling his eyes. "I would've torn off a lot more than his wig."

"You know, in retrospect, I suppose I'm lucky none of the tributes ever tried that with me."

"You're lucky _I_ didn't," he tells her, and for a moment, she sees him as he was during his interview all those years ago: an overconfident youth whose apparent laziness was the perfect cover for his tenacity.

"_Haymitch_," she says, exaggerating the accent that has softened over these past few weeks.

"Don't," he tells her, wincing. "Just don't. Remember that I'm within range of your wig."

She gasps, feigning offense. "You _wouldn't_."

In response, he reaches for hair, but she grabs his wrists, stopping his hands just a few inches from her head. "_Ah-ah_," she says firmly in what is now her normal voice, smiling. "Two things. One: you can't just grab a person's wig without having been given permission; and two: there are right ways and wrong ways to take one off."

Pulling back his hands, he arches an eyebrow. "I can think of a few wrong ways. Care to enlighten me?"

She smoothes her blue curls, as if to remind herself her wig is still in place. This is the one thing she hasn't conceded to changing in her new life. Her dresses are more subdued in style, and her make-up is not as thick, but this she cannot give up. Yet here she is, having opened that door just the tiniest bit with a playful invitation meant to be taken as a joke.

Of course he would challenge her, though. This is the man who outsmarted the old Capitol when he had been just a boy. She is a fool for not having expected it.

Yet there is no malice in his gaze now, no defiance. He is not, in this moment, the man who learned to be suspicious in order to survive, and this game is not quite so dangerous as others they have known.

"All right," she says, nodding. "This is how I learned."

Taking a breath, she counts to three and slips her fingers underneath the front of her wig, pulling out a pair of pins. Another few follow, these from where the back of her wig meets her neck. The last few she plucks from near either ear. She sets them slowly down on the coffee table, as if even this simple act is an integral part of the demonstration.

Gently, she lifts the wig off her head, revealing a mesh fabric cap whose color nearly matches that of her skin. "If you just rip it off," she explains, setting the blue curls down on an arm of the couch, an impromptu wig stand, "you risk taking the cap and some of the wearer's real hair with it. It isn't at all like with hats. You can't just stuff your hair under it and go on with your day."

What comes next is the hardest part of this. The stretchy cap, despite the small but revealing holes in it, is the last line of defense she has. She looks up at him and finds him transfixed. As she holds his gaze, her fingers freeze on the elastic of the cap. She can still tell him to go and forget what he has seen. He might try to fight her on it, but he will eventually go if she really wishes for him to leave.

But she won't. She has come too far to stop now.

Pressing her lips together, she pulls off the cap. Her natural hair has been pinned into submission, but there it is, out in the open. He does little more than frown the slightest bit, his eyes opening wide as if to better take in this new sight. For her part, she makes quick work of removing the pins, setting them with the others on the coffee table.

She combs her fingers through her hair, gingerly coaxing it into place. It's short, barely reaching past her ears, sticking out a bit here and there now that it has been set free. Briefly, she shuts her eyes and pretends it's longer, like it used to be, like it will be in time.

"Well," she says, meeting his gaze for one breathless moment, "that's it."

"It's brown," he says, almost amazed.

She nods. "I told you, it's not much lighter than yours."

For a moment, he is silent, frowning, then he lifts a hand and gestures with it to his hair, then hers.

Her breath catches at the audacity of the request. A prohibition is ready on her tongue at once, but she cannot find her voice. In that instant, her intent gets scrambled in the rush to respond.

So she nods.

He is surprisingly gentle, at first doing little more than tracing the imprints from the pins. She shuts her eyes, almost wincing when he tucks some of the strands behind her ear, then relaxes into the brush of his fingers through her hair, against her scalp.

"A lot of it is implants," she tells him softly some seconds later. "It's the only cosmetic procedure I had done."

"It feels normal," he says.

She nods, swallows against the dryness in her throat. "They replicated what little of my hair grew back on its own. It's as natural as it can be after everything."

He says nothing to that, but neither does he remove his hand. The last person to touch her this way was Seneca, but those moments all bore the taint of the old Capitol, Snow, and all the lies she had to tell to survive. Every stroke of Haymitch's fingers paints over those grey days, pulling her away from the memories and keeping her in the present, in this quiet night.

"It looks better this way," he tells her, voice soft.

Thoughts silenced, she opens her eyes and meets his gaze. He stares right back, resting his thumb on her cheek. This is when she should start counting, breathing through the numbers to ground herself and gather her thoughts. This is when she should find the strength to tell him the show is over and he must go home. Instead, this is when there isn't enough air to fill her lungs.

"Don't go," she breathes, grasping his wrist. Her vision blurs, and she tightens her hold. "Please." If he leaves now, the ghosts of relatives and friends and twenty-two children will stare at her from the shadows and drive her to near madness.

He shakes his head, slowly, breathing deep. "I'm not going anywhere."

This time, she will remember how the rescue goes, how it feels to lie tucked against him and to know that nothing and no one will touch her. She will remember how his breathing changes when he drifts asleep, and she will remember the meaning of trust.


	20. A Name for the Unnamable

Effie isn't sure what wakes her up in the middle of the night, but it is surely either a dream she can't remember or Haymitch's cursing and thrashing and knife-throwing that has done the trick. The blade lodges itself in the door, and the _thunk_ of it draws her out of the half-world between nightmare and reality.

Haymitch is still trapped there, yelling at a phantom attacker, so Effie goes from crying for help to pleading with him to stop.

It's her touch that does it, though, her hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off, twists to face her, ready to strike; but he catches sight of her eyes, and the blind rage in his slowly disappears in the face of her concern. Breathing heavily, he shuts his eyes, the tension visibly lifting from his neck and shoulders.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Yes. And you?"

"Never can tell," he says, sighing sharply. He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. Several slow, deep breaths later, he turns to look at her. "You're sure I didn't hurt you?"

"You didn't." Adjusting the sleeve of her night gown, she breathes shakily. In the dim, pre-dawn light, his frown looks more pronounced, and the shadows on his face give him an air of someone who has fought for too long against an enemy he cannot defeat.

How true, that idea, and how it fills her with sadness, moves her to place her hand between his shoulder blades. His muscles tense in response, but she persists, her touch steady. This is all she can give him. He has gone through this for so long, and with no one to help him through. Now here they are with nothing left to hide of the remnants of despair that plague their nights and days; here they are, saving one another from the darkest of demons.

Downstairs, the phone rings. Effie suppresses the urge to sigh.

"That should be Quintus," she says. She scoots to the edge of the bed and looks over her shoulder at him. "If you feel up to it, would you like to go into town with me?"

He shrugs. "You should make sure everything's okay before you make plans."

Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. "All right."

Quintus confirms that both mother and infant are well, though for a while it had looked difficult.

"And you waited up all night for this?" she asks him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"A few of us did. You can come by whenever you want. I'm heading off to bed. Everyone already has their schedule for the day, so you won't have to worry about that."

"Thank you. Now get some sleep."

Haymitch is still sitting up when she returns to the guest room.

"All's well?"

"Yes," Effie answers, turning on the lamp on the bedside table. "And the invitation still stands."

"I'm fine here," he says, lying on his side so he faces away from her. "I'm not really a morning person, and the kid will still be there when the sun is up."

She laughs quietly as she plucks a dress from her wardrobe. With any luck, he'll still be there when she gets back.

* * *

Dawn has broken by the time Effie makes it to town. Yasmin times Effie's visit to ensure Heather's comfort, but the few minutes she gets are enough. Asleep in her mother's arms, Camellia is nothing short of precious.

Effie leaves the little family with heartfelt congratulations, then heads back outside to confer with the crew members who have come in after sleeping all night.

"It's an easy day today," Ismene tells her. "Lots of short interviews. Mostly, people will be happy, I'm sure."

"I expect so."

"It should really round out what we've collected."

Effie nods. "That sounds so final. I can't believe we're almost at the end of our time here."

"I know. It's been a great experience, but I can't wait to be back home. My nephew wrote me the sweetest letter last week!"

"Home," Effie says softly as Ismene goes to begin her assignment for the day. The Capitol will always be tied to that word for her, but _home_, then, is no longer a place where she feels safe.

She must not think about that now, though, not when there is still work to do, final schedules to fix, a list of things to discuss over the phone with Heavensbee to be devised. The rest of the morning is spent with Agrippa at base camp, where his expertise proves instrumental in speeding her work and crossing items off her to-do list.

It's early afternoon when she gets up to go back to Victors Village, but not without first stopping by the Marshes' house again. Yasmin has left Dahlia, her apprentice, in charge of keeping watch, and perhaps in an effort to prove herself, the younger woman is much stricter in her watch.

When her visit is over, Effie heads out of town until a voice from behind stops her.

"Want some company?"

"If it's yours, Katniss, then always."

They walk together at an easy pace, and Effie updates Katniss on the state of the project.

"Yasmin has approved us for filming Camellia the last few days we'll be here. Theodosia is so excited for that."

Katniss smiles, but Effie recognizes the lack of joy in it, even begins to feel the twinge of guilt that comes along with it.

"I went to see Camellia," Katniss says after several silent steps.

"She's sweet, isn't she," Effie says more than asks. It is an invitation to disagree, one that holds no promise of chastisement for a difference in opinion. If Katniss is being honest enough to speak without smiling, then Effie will do her the courtesy of letting her own misgivings come to the surface.

"Yeah. Really cute." Katniss bites her lips, waiting a beat, perhaps looking for the right words to say what she needs to say. Finally, she takes a breath and says, "I want to be happy for them. I _am_ happy for them. Camellia will never know how it used to be."

"But?"

Shaking her head, Katniss shrugs. "I don't know. Would you have kids, after everything that's happened?"

Effie doesn't hesitate. "No. I can barely take care of myself some days."

"Me, too. And looking at Camellia, I just kept thinking of all those kids who died in the Games, the ones I saw die in the arena, all the ones who ever had to go through even one reaping day, and I just-"

Touching Katniss' shoulder, Effie nods. "I know."

Katniss sighs and squints up at the bright blue sky. "It'll be strange to see you go."

"It'll be strange to go at all," Effie agrees. She takes the change of subject in stride, shrugging, forcing herself to breathe through the sudden tightness in her throat. There is still time to be enjoyed here. She will save any tears for later. "I've gotten so used to you and Peeta and Haymitch being just a few houses down."

"I've gotten used to your iced tea."

Effie laughs. "I'll teach you how to make it. But you mustn't tell _anyone_ else, all right?"

"Deal."

They part ways when they reach Peeta's house. Effie calls Heavensbee and updates him on their progress. His excitement comes through loud and clear, and once he has assured and reassured her that he will be in touch right away with the editors she'd selected before filming had begun, he congratulates her on her fine work.

"It's the people here you should be thanking, not me," she reminds him.

Heavensbee laughs. "Yes, absolutely, all those marvelous people. And have you thought of a title yet?"

"No, but we're close," she lies.

"I'll leave you to that, then."

She sighs heavily once she hangs up the phone. The early morning has taken its toll, and her insistence on completing her tasks for the day has not helped. She heads upstairs and nearly tiptoes into the guest room. Sure enough, Haymitch is still there, sprawled on his stomach, dead to the world.

Still, she is quiet, pulling open the drawers slowly in her search for lighter clothing. She is opening the second drawer when he tells her, "Cut that out. I'm awake."

"You should have said something sooner," she scolds him, sighing away the fright he'd just given her. "I could be napping right now." He laughs while she grabs an older dress from the drawer and pushes it shut hard. "Looks like you're all rested up," she tells him, standing.

"And you don't. Come on, sit down for a second. I bet you've been running around all day."

Perhaps it's presumption on her part, but she had not expected him to be so perceptive so soon after waking. Then again, he may have been awake before she even got to the house. In either case, she accepts the invitation, sitting in the space left when he sits up and moves to accommodate her.

"Very busy day today," she tells him. "How did you sleep while I was gone?"

He shrugs. "Could've been worse. I'll have to see about getting that door fixed now."

"It could be worse." He rolls his eyes, and she laughs quietly. "The Marshes' daughter's name is Camellia. You'll want to know that, because I'm sure it will come up no matter who you talk to from here on out."

He nods, gaze fixed on her. Suddenly self-conscious, she touches the blue curls at the back of her head, just to be sure she is, in fact, wearing her wig.

That prompts him, and he reaches out, saying, "You can take that off now, right?"

In a flash, she has let go of her older dress and grasped his wrists. Her hold is tight, her nails ready to bite into his skin. "Don't." With that, he relents, but she does not let him go. "Ask first," she tells him, her voice hard, her gaze firm. "Always."

"Can I-"

"Later." She holds his stare a few seconds longer before releasing his wrists and letting her muscles relax.

He nods slowly, his gaze remorseful. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know." She places her hand on his and notes how very pale she is next to him. In all their years of attending reapings and preparing tributes for Games, she had never taken the time to really see him, not since the day they had met. He had been a constant in the ever-changing world of the Capitol, his surliness and sardonic sense of humor keeping her focused. She had spent so much time hating him for his disregard for proper behavior that she had not seen that he had been the only person to be truly honest with her.

And never once had he hurt her. Upset her, yes; driven her near the end of her patience, repeatedly. But he had let her be, in the end, and that was more than she could say about so many.

Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to his cheek, gives him a tiny smile when he frowns. She stands and heads for the door, glad for an early end to the work day, but a thought stops her short when she reaches it.

"Oh my goodness," she gasps.

"What?" he asks as she whirls to face him.

With a hand to her heart, she stares at him for a moment, then says, "I know what to call the documentary."


	21. As the Sky

(Acknowledgements are once again in order: R, your friendship means more to me than I can express, as does your honesty and advice. S, a constant in an ever-changing world, a rock and veritable goddess of a friend, where would I be without you? Shulik, your kindness to a virtual stranger was lovely to see, and I thank you for it (and must add that I love your work terribly!). My muse, may we continue to weave many tales together, for you are the fire that burns in my heart. And, of course, everyone who has read, favorited, followed, and/or reviewed this. Thank you for taking this journey with me. :) I hope you have enjoyed it. For me, it was fifty days of bliss and seven days of wonder that I will treasure forever. Once again, thank you, and please enjoy this last chapter. :D)

* * *

The last week and a half of filming goes by in a blur. Effie flits from base camp to Peeta's house and back again, relaying messages and coordinating the crew's return trip and the editors' schedules. Katniss makes it a point to go with Peeta into town for every trip he makes, which become more frequent as the date of the crew's departure draws near. The builders work as fast as they can to finish a house near the Marshes', and the film crew split up for three days for one last tour of the land around the town and Victors Village. Only Haymitch seems unaffected, except in how he spends more and more time in Peeta's house as the last day of filming draws near.

On the night before the last day, Peeta bakes enough for a banquet, Katniss replicates the few recipes she knows, and they invite Effie and Haymitch for dinner. Like the first time they had done this, Haymitch brings two bottles of wine, and unlike that first time, Effie brings a pitcher of iced tea.

"Spoiling us to the end, I see," Peeta remarks as he sets a basket of mixed rolls in the center of the dining table.

Effie laughs and tells him, "Oh, I'm sure you'll manage without me." She looks at Katniss over the steaming rolls, and Katniss nods, smiling.

This time there are no hostile exchanges. Effie shares with them the plans for the next few weeks.

"There'll be interviews with Quintus and some of the others, and I've been asked to make a few appearances also. All this will happen while the editors are at work." She sighs as if she's in the middle of it all this very moment. "I can't believe there's still so much to do."

"What did you settle on for a title?" asks Katniss.

Sitting up as straight as she can in her chair, Effie shakes her head. "That is a secret. You'll find out when it premieres."

"There are all of two working television sets in town, and one of them may as well be a radio," Peeta tells her.

"And all those people aren't going to fit anywhere too comfortably even if we split them among the sets we have in our houses," Haymitch adds.

"_Well_..." Effie lets the sentence trail, sighing. "I wasn't going to tell you this for another few days, but I suppose now is as good a time as any." She waits a beat, grinning. "We're going to hold the premiere here. We'll bring in a big screen and all the crew members. Plutarch suggested we have it catered, but we're still working that out. He also wants to make the half hour before the premiere part of the show."

"Always thinking big, that Heavensbee," Haymitch remarks, snorting as he drains his glass of wine.

"Yes. Anyway, we're still ironing out the particulars, but we _are_ coming back once the documentary is ready."

"How long will it be 'til then?" asks Peeta.

"A good few weeks." Effie's excitement wanes a little with that, but she smiles regardless. "Barely any time at all. Quintus has put a few seconds of material together already, and there will be so much to do that I'm sure the time will just fly."

No one is very convinced, not even Effie herself, but they accept it because it is all they have.

Haymitch walks Effie to Peeta's house at the end of the night. Once at the door, they stand facing one another in a silence that drowns out the cicadas in the grass.

"I'm not going to the train station tomorrow," he tells her.

She nods. "I thought as much. This is it, then. Well, until I come back."

"You sure you'll be all right on your own back there?"

Pressing her lips together, she shrugs. "There's always the phone."

"Right," he says, nodding.

"You could come with us." When he frowns, she continues, "You're very good with making sure the right image is presented, and I'm sure the perspective of someone from here will be highly valued during the last stretch of the process."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Nah. I'm done working in television. You'll all be fine without me."

"Of course." She forces a smile, but it's shaky at best.

He doesn't bother with one of his own, only nods and sighs. "Bring me something back."

"Yes," she says, nodding, and half a moment later, she throws her arms about him and holds on tight.

His embrace is firm without crushing her. Into her blue curls, he says, "I'll call you every night."

And she answers, grasping his shirt and shutting her eyes, "You'd better."

The next morning, after the crew's equipment and luggage are ready and waiting at the train station, they and the residents have a late breakfast together. Katniss and Peeta attend, baskets of pastries in hand, and Effie tries her hardest not to cry as she kisses them good-bye.

As she watches the district fade into the distance, she reminds herself that this is not the real farewell.

In the Capitol, Quintus sets to work with the editors at once, and Effie deals with publicity and accounts. Plutarch's push for the half-hour pre-premiere show in District Twelve gets the segment approved and funded. It's nothing short of miraculous, but he shrugs any praise away.

"You're the face of this, Effie," he says to her when he declines the offer to appear on an afternoon talk show with her. "It's your brainchild. Enjoy it."

Caesar Flickerman's successor is his daughter, Cleopatra, who inherited her father's charisma and stage presence. She left much of the set of his daily show intact, only adding a banner for every district when she took charge. Her purple-and-gold striped irises sparkle beneath the spotlights on the day of the interview, but Effie's attention is with the editors in the studio and the builders back in the district.

"In your opinion, how have their lives improved since the rebellion?" Cleopatra asks, toning her gleaming smile down just enough to appear serious.

"Oh, immensely," says Effie. "I can't even begin to describe how different it is now from how it was just over a year ago. They are such strong and lovely people. I can't wait for everyone to see that for themselves."

"And we're all very excited to see the show. It's such a shame you won't be here to share it with us all, but we'll be just as happy to watch you live from District Twelve! The anticipation is almost too much to bear, isn't it?"

The studio audience breaks into applause. Cleopatra leads them along with her smile, silencing them with all the skill and grace of her father when she turns to face Effie again.

"Now, I heard that returning for the premiere was not in your original plan," Cleopatra prompts. "Is there anything we should know, anyone we should be especially grateful to?"

"That person would rather remain unnamed, but I will say this: I think it's a fantastic idea, and the crew and I are so happy to go back and see all these people we got to know during filming."

Effie does interviews for print media and radio shows as well, as does Quintus. Capitol TV promotes the documentary with a fervor it had once reserved for the Hunger Games, and by the time Effie, Quintus, and the crew are set to return to District Twelve, there is a crowd at the train station, eager to see them go.

"I must say, I'm very happy that people are so enthusiastic about it, but I'm not very comfortable with this." Effie glimpses out the window at the crowd, wishing the conductor would hurry and start the train.

"It's too much like before," Quintus says, nodding. "At least now, they're not celebrating death. One step at a time."

In District Twelve the time has passed more slowly for Katniss, but not drearily. She has been making the weekly trips into town with Peeta and fielding the occasional phone call from the Capitol, happy to hear Effie's voice as she delivers updates she needs not give. Between those days, she visits Haymitch, taking him lunch and bringing him game from her trips into the woods. The routine becomes comforting quickly, and eventually, the absence of life in Peeta's house starts to fade.

Then she is back, Effie with her bright blue wig and her simple floral dress, the film crew with equipment to set up for the viewing in the evening.

"You brought a suitcase," Katniss tells her, arching her eyebrows.

"Well, Plutarch says we've earned a few days off," Effie says. "I was hoping Peeta wouldn't mind allowing me to invade his guest room again."

"He won't. Come on." Katniss leads the way to Victors Village. "I want you to try the iced tea and tell me what you think."

A mid-morning snack with Peeta and Katniss turns into an early lunch that includes Haymitch, who has bothered to dress up a bit for the day.

"But it's not for another few hours," Katniss tells him, frowning.

"Katniss, shush," Effie hisses good-naturedly. "I'm just impressed he's going at all."

Peeta laughs, and Haymitch rolls his eyes.

"Don't get on my case if my clothes are all wrinkled later," says Haymitch. "I'm going, but I can't promise I won't fall asleep at some point between now and then."

Almost as if to spite Effie, Haymitch helps her with her suitcase, enduring her admonitions against dirt and mud the entire way there with surprising patience. Katniss looks at Peeta, shrugs, and helps him clear the table.

Effie leaves for the town square before sunset. Katniss and Peeta get ready, leaving themselves ample time to get Haymitch. Luckily for them, he has managed not to spill liquor all over himself before the premiere.

They arrive early at the square. Effie spots them quickly and waves them over. "I reserved seats for you," she says, indicating them.

Before long, the residents start to take the rest of the seats. Effie hovers by the front of the assembly. They have decided against a stage, leaving the screen as the only elevated piece tonight. No more looking down on District Twelve: tonight, they are the ones above the rest.

Just as Quintus starts to call everyone into place, Haymitch comes up beside Effie.

"So how many days are you staying for after this?" he asks.

"Just a few." Effie shrugs, hoping to hide her disappointment. "Cleopatra Flickerman would rather I go back tomorrow, but Plutarch made sure we have some time to breathe after all this work."

"Shame," Haymitch says. "It'd be nice if you stayed longer. Katniss really missed you."

"Did she?"

"Wouldn't shut up about you. Begged me to tell her how you were."

"I'm sure."

"Threatened to call Heavensbee to see if he couldn't figure out a way to keep you over here for good."

"Oh?"

Haymitch shrugs, nodding in the direction of the cameras. "But you can ask her about that tomorrow. Your fans await."

She laughs, swatting him gently. "Walk me home later," she says as she starts for the stage. "Katniss' ideas simply cannot wait until morning."

It isn't until she's standing in front of the microphone with Quintus that she realizes she called Peeta's house 'home.'

The scripted introduction she and Quintus worked on all week saves her from an embarrassing silence, and soon she forgets the implications of the suggestions attributed to Katniss and the word Effie used to describe the house in Victors Village. For thirty minutes, she acknowledges the builders and residents she spoke the most with during filming, and Quintus brings others' names to the spotlight. Then they bring several of them up to share their thoughts about the project. Effie fills with pride for them and how they embody the very opposite of what the Capitol had taught her and countless others. They are not fools with no manners. They are the most excellent of people, honorable in the utmost.

"Well," she says, smiling, as Oliver joins the audience again, "the time has finally come for you to see the culmination of so many wonderful people's hard work. They are, all of them, as the sky to me. They have touched my life, and I hope they do the same for you.

"For your edification and enjoyment, I am proud to present to you, _As the Sky_."


End file.
